Borborygmi, Spring 2015

BORBORYGMI A humor magazine

Volume 2, Issue 1 Spring 2015

BORBORYGMI

Editors in Chief Executive Editor Associate Editor Assistant Editor Copy Chief Web Editor Proofreader Human Resources The Idea Guy The Art Director’s Big Toe Amanuensis Chief Happiness Officer Scullery Maid Editorial Interns Intern Intern Indentured Servant Indentured Servant

Chelsea and Katie Leu Katie Leu Chelsea Leu Katie Leu Chelsea Leu Katie Leu Chelsea Leu Katie Leu Katie Leu Chelsea Leu Chelsea Leu Chelsea Leu Katie Leu Katie and Chelsea Leu Chelsea Leu Katie Leu Chelsea Leu

Borborygmi was founded in fall 2014 by Chelsea and Katie Leu in a fit of desperation born of postgraduate ennui, and it aims to make its readers’ lives slightly more amusing (mostly through schadenfreude). Borborygmi is a quarterly magazine; a new issue is published every time one of us plunges into existential crisis. Borborygmi is not only a nonprofit but an unprofit organization, sustained mostly by handouts and indentured servitude (see above). Donations, in the form of cash, love, food, or surprise backrubs, are greatly appreciated.

Circulation: 20 Headquarters: Where the sun don’t shine We live on the internet at issuu.com/borborygmi.

For comments, questions, inquiries, confessions, or directions to the nearest public restroom, don’t call us.

Contents Features: Survival of the Unfit

A Tree Grows in Business

Page 8

Page 6

Career growth

Nasty, brutish and short

Departments: 2 3 4 5

Editors’ Note On things we’ve learned

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How-To Reduce, Repent, Upcycle

Letterbox

Rock the Note Attn: S.O.S.

Ask Ms. Morningdew

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Better than Ex Photobombs away!

Review

Hot Sauces at the Richardsons’ Call the fire trucks, it’s an emergency

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Quiz

Upcycling the environmental apocalypse

What Disease Do You Have?

Diagnose yourself!

Potpourri

Peeved, plank-like puma

Editors’ Note Dear readers, We’ve changed. We’re no longer the fresh-faced, naïve humor serialists we were about six months ago, when we gaily thought making a magazine full of poop jokes would land us in the literary pantheon right up there with Hemingway and Dav Pilkey. No, now that we've seen how the magazine-sausage is made, we're older, sadder, and somehow more immature than ever before.

We’ve learned a few things in the process. We’ve learned never to throw eggshells into the sink disposal. We’ve learned that if it’s yellow, let it mellow. And we’ve learned, with the help of a few unsolicited but well-meaning comments, that our art department wasn’t worth the purely nominal salary we paid them, so we sacked them all on the spot.

(Except for the art director’s big toe, which has been a fount of inspiration to us all.) In light of these personnel changes, we’ve held marathon brainstorming sessions to craft our new aesthetic direction. It’s now “women’s lifestyle meets ugly literary magazine.” We hope the art in the following pages, drawn by the writers themselves, makes you think long and hard about how to please your man using only a fountain pen and your imagination.

There were some successes. We celebrated the publication of our first issue with a launch party, an intimate affair with an exclusive guest list. Party activities included pouring Drano down a clogged sink, sobbing, and gorging on tea cookies. All two attendees agreed that it had been the event of the year—and it wasn’t even February yet.

Our last issue celebrated the irrepressible, scatological joys of childhood. In this issue, we explore the theme of nature—how it moves us to shit ourselves in fear, and also just to shit in general. It's "the call of nature," after all.

Dial 2 for Turds,

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Letterbox Rock the Note Good morning, Dr. Feld-Spar.

By now you have probably realized that your pet rock Roxanne—the light of your life, your greatest inspiration, the rock in your relationship— has gone missing from her accustomed perch in the tiny rock-bed you so carefully constructed and placed next to your pillow. You have no doubt already placed calls to both your local police department and the United States Geological Survey, attempted to file a missing persons report, and wandered the streets hollering her name. But let us assuage your fears: we have your precious Roxanne.

But if you ever want to see Roxanne’s gently smiling, painted-on little face again, you must give us something in return. We demand that you render to us the lava lamp—made with ac-

tual lava—that you sold to us on eBay ten years ago but never delivered. Place it at the peak of Mauna Kea at the last stroke of midnight next Wednesday. If we do not see the lava lamp at this time, we will begin chipping away at Roxanne with a pickaxe. You will subsequently receive slivers of Roxanne’s body in envelopes sent to your address, as a daily reminder of your grave, grave error. If even after a week of this you do not comply, we will grind what remains of Roxanne into a fine powder and, with the help of a little food coloring, use it to make a lovely bottle of colored sand art that will be almost as groovy as the lava lamp we never received. Don’t let that happen.

Or else, Your friendly neighborhood rocknappers

Attn: S.O.S. Dear colleagues, Hi all! I know I’m pretty new around here (today’s my 183rd day, according to the tally I’ve painstakingly carved into this island’s lone palm tree!), and I’m still getting to know everyone.

But I just wanted to remind you all that some of us are trying to get important work done, like sending off flare signals at the nearest passing plane, or reading War and Peace for the 396th time. I realize we’re sharing a limited amount of space—50 square feet of fine white sand somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle, to be exact— but I think we'd all be much more productive if we started being a little more conscious of our shared work spaces!

For example, I’d really appreciate it if the seagulls in upper management could maybe try to hover less while I work—it tends to interfere with my focus, especially when you swoop in

and snatch the fish I’ve toiled all day to catch in order to stave off starvation. And crabs, it’d be great if you could work on your own projects instead of constantly trying to help me on mine—like that one time you made burrows right in the middle of the large “RESCUE ME” I was trying to carve in the sand. That was highly unproductive.

I know we’re all extremely committed to the hard work of staying alive and wrestling for dominance in the food chain. I know I’m trying to do the best work I can here. If we could all just be a bit more mindful of our actions, we can make this godforsaken patch of land a slightly more pleasant place to work!

I need a vacation, Robin S. Crusoe

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Dear Ms. Morningdew, I met a guy a few months ago at my local Dutch clogging festival, and we hit it off immediately. We dated briefly, but after a disastrous routine in our city’s Little Holland, we agreed that things just weren’t working out and called it quits. We’ve kept in touch, though, and so far it’s been pretty amicable. But here’s the thing: he sends me photos of his wonderful post-me life constantly. At first they started out simple: glasses of mimosas with a three course brunch, say, or a glittering sunset over the Mediterranean.

Then, about a week ago, he kicked it up a notch. He sent over a picture of himself skydiving with the entire lineup of the Harlem Globetrotters strapped to his back, all of them giving enthusiastic thumbs ups with one hand and clutching glasses of Chardonnay in the other. “Wish you were here!” he wrote. Oh, it was on. I quickly composed a photo of myself tossing back gin and tonics with the Queen of England, both of us laughing uproariously at an outré but devastatingly witty joke I’d just delivered, and he went quiet for a few days. But then he came back strong with a photo of himself surrounded by adoring children in an unidentifiable third world country, all of whom he had just taught impeccable English and whose respect he had gradually earned with his hidden talents on the soccer field. I volleyed with a shot of myself completing the last stage of the Tour de France, sweaty but immaculately composed, my closest competition mere specks in the distance.

That, I thought with mild, exhausted triumph, would settle things. But no. Last night, he sent me an entire photo montage: First, a view of himself in a chopper preparing to rappel down into a massive fire headed straight for the White House. Then, an action shot of him delivering roundhouse 4

punches to a horde of faceless, threatening arsonists, the unconscious President and First Lady slung across his back. Finally, there he was on top of Mount Rushmore, a bald eagle perched on his shoulder, exchanging firm handshakes and fist bumps with what appeared to be the resurrected spirits of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln.

And was that the hand of God I saw giving him a thumbs up from on high?

Ms. Morningdew, I am quickly running out of ideas and disposable income, and my hamstrings, calves and selfietaking thumb are in excruciating pain. How do I best his latest? Can you get me to Antarctica, or maybe space?

Better than Ex

 Dear Better, I have to keep this response brief since I’m running late for my MotorCycle spin class (it’s like regular spin, but on stationary motorcycles rather than bicycles—instead of pedaling, we just sit on the bikes, visualize weaving through traffic, and fill the room with unbearably loud revving). Now, your unusually patriotic ex may have won the battle, but you’re going to win this rapidly-escalating photo-swapping Cold War if I have anything to do with it.

Let’s talk strategy. I say if you can’t beat him, join him—literally. When he snaps a selfie while scaling a sheer cliff face on Mount Everest, you should be there too, waving from the top of the cliff, just within the frame of his shot. When he captures himself blazing across the ocean using two dolphins as water skis, you should be floating in a life preserver nearby, holding up a sign that reads “STOP ANIMAL ABUSE”—again, just within frame. When he cruises past Jupiter in a sleek, tricked-out spaceship, you too should appear against outer space’s inky backdrop, clinging for dear life to a passing asteroid and screaming

soundlessly. All this will of course require that you anticipate his every move with a dogged precision that verges on stalking, and that you somehow gain access to his ridiculous hobbies. But it will all be worth it when your ex sends you a photo and you can reply “Been there, done that.” Or when he reviews his photos and discovers that you’re in every last one of them. He might press charges, but at least you’ll be even.

You’re welcome, Ms. Morningdew

Review

Hot Sauces at the Richardsons’

by Emmy Richardson, baby gourmand, age 5 months

It’s been an eventful few months at the Richardson Residence Kitchen, the new momand-pop eatery whose polarizing finger foods and purées have led this critic to wax emotional on more than one occasion. But despite a few early missteps—the pear-and-spinach incident comes forcibly to mind—the two chefs, Maria “Mommy” Richardson and Robert “Daddy” Richardson, have consistently produced dishes at precisely-timed three-hour intervals that both intrigue and delight. Lately, they’ve been broadening my palate with offerings of applesauce (pleasantly fruity, though texture is grainy and off-putting) and mashed peas (disgusting; good for flinging). In an exclusive taste testing event, the chefs placed me in my eating throne and fed me a series of red pastes. Tasting notes follow.

NO NOT THIS AGAIN SOMEONE CALL THE FIRE TRUCKS IT’S AN EMERGENCY

Sriracha I’m especially fascinated by the rooster on the bottle, which lends the sauce an immediate appeal. But the texture is OH GOD WHAT IS HAPPENING INSIDE MY MOUTH WHAT IS THIS HORRIBLE BURNING FEELING WHY DOES IT HURT SO MUCH

Ghost pepper sauce YOU SICK PEOPLE

Habanero sauce The smokiness of the peppers is undercut by I WISH I KNEW HOW TO EXPRESS THIS UNBEARABLE PAIN WITH WORDS BUT FOR NOW I’M GOING TO SCREAM AS LOUD AS I CAN AND MAYBE SOMEONE WILL COME AND SAVE ME Salsa picante I TRUSTED YOU WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING PUT THAT CAMERA AWAY Harissa I HAVE NO MORE TEARS TO CRY I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY

Tabasco sauce This sauce has a vinegary, bright flavor, with a 5

A Tree Grows in Business Not many people appreciate how hard it is for a ficus to climb up the corporate ladder. When I was young, green, and just starting out in the workplace, I never spoke up during meetings (in the exceedingly rare instances when I was able to attend them) and I found it difficult to communicate with my coworkers—try as I might, they rarely seemed to acknowledge my presence, much less the quality work I was doing. But I was a diligent worker, perpetually striving toward new heights and actively contributing growth to the company. With a little resourcefulness, and by capitalizing on an opportunity that was quite literally thrown at me, I made it into the big leagues. And I’m going to let you all in on how a menial office plant like me got to the top, where I am today.

So one day, I’m just standing in the corner of my office as usual, silently working, minding my own business, when my officemate comes up and dumps some scalding-hot liquid on me. “Yo! What gives?!” I shout at him, but he doesn’t respond. He never responds to me. Instead, he shuts off his computer, rips a sheet of paper into

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tiny shreds and jumps on the pieces a few times, clicks off the light, and then leaves. All of which is also normal, except for the fact that I’m sitting root-deep in boiling water. But then I realize— as my roots begin to absorb the liquid—that it’s not water. It’s something else, something bitter and heavy. I’d like to eject it from my system, but unfortunately roots are only equipped for uptake. So I sit there and quietly suck it all up.

All night, my trunk is thickening, my root system is becoming ever more Byzantine, and I’m photosynthesizing like mad despite all physical improbabilities. By the time my officemate stumbles into our office the next morning, I’ve already grown six inches taller and sprouted a new branch, complete with a set of delicately budding tendrils. “Where’ve you been?” I try to banter with him. “I’ve gotten so much work done without you, it’s like I don’t even need you here!” He ignores me. Instead, he slumps over to his desk and puts his head down and doesn’t move for a long while. “I need coffee,” he groans eventually, and shuffles out of the room. I sprout a new leaf.

When he comes back, he’s holding a cup of something that’s steaming. He sips it while he smashes at his keyboard with his fist. Before I can tell him that he hasn’t turned on the computer yet, he turns to me and dumps the scorching contents of the cup on me, just like he did yesterday. “For the love of Baucis and Philemon, stop doing that!!” I yell. He just mutters something about how hard it is to find shade-grown coffee in this shithole, and goes back to pounding the keyboard, this time with both fists. I’m left seething. But then suddenly, unexpectedly, a tiny fruit springs forth from my largest peduncle. My leaves shiver with an admixture of pride, fear, awe, and general jitteriness. Is it this coffee stuff that’s been fueling my outlandish productivity? Whatever it is, it’s even more miraculous than Miracle-Gro. But as with any miracle drug, there are some nasty side effects. The next few weeks at work for me are a roller coaster ride: spurts of blazing efficiency invariably followed by periods when I can barely bring myself to release even a molecule of oxygen. The worst of it comes when my officemate decides to take a week off work to attend an intensive anger-management seminar. After a few days spent languishing groggily, barely maintaining homeostasis, I concentrate all of my last reserves of glucose toward issuing forth a single, extremely long adventitious root to snake around the office and find the source of the coffee. All of my beautiful new leaves shrivel up and fall off as a result of this effort, but it’s all worth it when I find the espresso machine. Within a few hours I’ve replaced all of my old shoots with a sleek, newly designed model of leaf, optimized for maximum photosynthesis efficiency and equipped with a lightweight protective armor that glows in the dark and exudes a pleasant fragrance. (Nothing ventured, nothing gained.)

When annual performance reviews roll around, I’m ready to make my case to my manager about why I should be promoted. I’ve been particularly innovative this quarter, exploring new opportunities that have ultimately borne fruit. My trunk’s girth has increased almost 20% from last year, and I’ve overseen the creation of 15 new branches and hundreds of new

leaves. In fact, I’ve contributed so much growth to the company that I barely have room to grow any more: my uppermost leaves graze the ceiling, and my roots have begun wrapping around my officemate’s computer tower. He can scarcely throw a punch at the computer screen without getting tangled in my branches. So when my manager comes in to check up on me, she can hardly help but notice the great work I’ve been doing.

“Wow, it’s a jungle in here!” she says, peering into our office.

My officemate nods helplessly, wedged between a branch and one of my larger fruits. I stand a little taller with pride.

“We’ll have to do something about that.

I’ll call building services,” she says, and walks off.

The next thing I know, I’m being lifted bodily, my roots detached from the office furniture, and carried out of my office. When I’m finally set down again, I realize that I’m somewhere outside, somewhere high up. I’m surrounded by greenery and lawn chairs. A fountain encrusted with playful stone cherubim burbles peacefully a short distance away. And then it dawns on me. Just like that, I’ve been promoted to the highest position in the building: the rooftop garden.

And that, my friends, is how a ficus climbs to the top of the corporate ladder.

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Survival of the Unfit It’s a clear December day, and my sister and I are somewhere in the San Gabriel Mountains accompanying our friend on a hike. The setting sun makes the mountains glow a luminous orange, and we can see LA spread out before us, the Pacific Ocean glimmering like a disco ball in the distance. Our friend is in her element. “Isn’t being outdoors great?” she says, striding ahead of us clutching her professional-grade camera. She snaps a few photos and stares out at the view contentedly, which makes her look a little like Simba from The Lion King surveying his domain.

My sister makes a guttural noise that completely fails to convey polite agreement. We’re lagging a good five feet behind our friend, partly because I’ve assumed the bearing and general attitude of an inmate on a death march. It’s cold by LA standards—40 degrees and nippy—and I’m attempting to keep my body heat from escaping uselessly into the thin mountain air by clenching everything that can be clenched. I undo myself only to staunch the flow of snot dripping from my nose or to slap feeling back into my face. Beside me, my sister is stoic.

We’re also lagging because this is the first time we’ve been out of the house in weeks, and our reintroduction to the outdoors hasn’t been a pleasant one. My legs itch unbearably.

Runners trot past us with their dogs, all shapely, panting paragons of fitness, and I briefly wonder if it wouldn’t be better just to launch myself off the side of the mountain and roll my way back to civilization. Then I spot a turd by the side of the dirt path and decide against it.

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 I’m not the greatest hiking companion. But for some reason, my friends keep inviting me on these outdoor excursions, even when every look I give them on these trips is a mute plea for us to turn around and get right back in the car. I can’t bring myself to refuse their invitations, either. How do I explain that whenever I step outdoors, I can see the end of my life with pulse-quickening clarity, and it looks kind of like a giant, bloodthirsty puma? Do I tell them about my sneaking suspicion that I’m literally allergic to exercise? Or about that one waking nightmare where I’m shredded to bits by lions, tigers and bears, oh my? No, I don’t. Instead I smile, agree to join them on their hike, and start figuring out who’ll inherit my Nintendo 3DS after I meet my grisly end.

Nature has always had the power to plunge me into existential crisis. I sense this is a minority viewpoint among my peers and maybe most currently-alive people—the people who saw nature as a force to be feared probably also thought sharpened rocks were cuttingedge technology. (I’ve always been a little oldfashioned.) I can only guess that when my friends think about nature, they’re imagining scenes from National Geographic— thundering waterfalls, brightly-colored reefs, mountains that rise craggily from windswept plains. I’m also imagining scenes from National Geographic, mainly the ones where a grim Morgan Freeman provides voiceover for footage of hyenas messily tearing into the carcass of a baby gazelle.

Then, too, there’s the idea that going out into the wilderness gives you some measure of Zen. In the woods, away from the souldeadening chatter and constant statusseeking of human civilization, you find yourself. A sort of cleansing, the thinking goes.

Thanks to this mystical healing connection we have with the natural world, we emerge from our time outdoors refreshed, recharged, and ready to make savvy, career-advancing decisions.

I’m not immune to this idea myself. A few months ago, I was smarting from a recent breakup and was pretty much ready never to love another human being again. So I agreed to go with one of my friends to visit a heavily wooded park in the city. Maybe this will help, I thought.

to run its normal course, I’d be out of the gene pool before you could say “Charles Darwin’s secret cocaine habit.” Whatever reflexes I was born with for hunting, gathering, or running away as quickly as possible have been lulled out of me by years of easy living. The only foraging I’ve ever done is in the Fuji apple bins at Trader Joe’s. I would lose an arm-wrestling match against an especially motivated 8-yearold. (There’s nothing like facing off against a child to remind you that nature is still alive and kicking in us Homo sapiens. Kids fight dirty.) Weak, slow, and extremely nearsighted, I’d be abandoned by my tribe as a lost cause and totter around the primordial grasslands until the giant sloths got me.

We walked through stands of sequoias and a bunch of gnarled trees that looked about as wretched as I felt. I waited openly, expectantly, for nature to confer its healing touch upon me. But even as my friend and I interrupted sleeping ducks from their naps and watched hordes of waterfowl squabble amongst themselves in a small pond, I was strangely unmoved. Instead of feeling refreshed, I felt (if anything) kind of grimy and hungry, and even lonelier than I had been already—even the ducks had a more happening social life than I did. At least I wasn’t worrying about dying alone anymore. Instead, I was worrying about dying from exposure, or maybe from being pecked repeatedly by a really pissed off mallard.

Going out in nature makes me realize just how alone and small I really am. And why shouldn’t it? I’m only one of 7 billion humanoids on this tiny planet, and—just like all the ants I’ve squashed and the blades of grass I’ve trampled on—my death would be an unremarkable drop in the bucket. There are many valid emotional responses to this thought, but I’m not sure a warm, unqualified joie de vivre is one of them. And I’m sure our early hominid ancestors would agree with me: In the 200,000-odd years we’ve spent on this planet, we’ve spent most of our time and considerable intellectual energies figuring out how to get as far away from nature as possible. We built shelters and erected cities so we didn’t have to worry about animals eating our food or us, and invented agriculture probably to make it easier to find Fuji apples that aren’t bruised all over.

I think part of my grumpy antipathy towards nature comes from the recognition that it would kill me in a heartbeat if given the chance. If survival of the fittest were allowed

But these are thoughts I keep to myself when I’m struggling up a mountain trail. (No matter how much I want to grab a runner by their sweaty, toned shoulders and whisper to them that we are all unbearably small in the grand scheme of things, and that running away won’t solve anything.) I go on hikes with my friends, and I’ve come to realize why: because spending time with my friends is fulfilling, and also because friends don’t let friends get devoured by giant, bloodthirsty pumas.

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How-To

Reduce, Repent, Upcycle When Earth’s resources have been completely exhausted and climate change has ravaged the planet beyond all recognition, what better way to make use of what little is left than through upcycling?

You may be living in an apocalyptic wasteland, but that doesn’t mean you can’t live in a chic and sustainable apocalyptic wasteland. Here are some fun ideas for upcycling projects that will show off your crafty side while you attempt to stave off death by starvation, natural disaster, and/or murderous horde!

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Wall decor: So you’ve managed to find a nice abandoned elevator car to shelter you from the protracted, exceptionally violent storms that have now become commonplace. Liven up the place by piecing together the now utterly worthless bills and coins of your currency to create a trendy collage for your wall. Take inspiration from the scenes around you: catastrophic floods, the mass extinction of species, and the collapse of the world economy all make for meaningful subject matter.

Planter for succulents: Since everything that isn’t underwater is now a desert, succulents are abundant. Give those succulents a cute home by planting them in the empty shoes of your deceased loved ones.

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Jewelry stand: Now that you’ve made yourself some jewelry, you need a stylish way to organize it. Gather up some dead branches (but act fast—the trees are all dead now and branches are rapidly being snapped up for firewood) and sand them down. Dab on some paint mixed from ash and squirrel blood, and finally drape your jewelry over the branches and admire your handiwork. Then, get ready to defend that firewood with your life.

Eutrophi-couture: Rock the “I washed up like this” look with a flowing dress tailored out of an algal bloom dredged from your nearest lake. Don’t forget to accessorize with a dead fish clutch purse!

Jellyfish lanterns: With all of their natural predators dead from ocean acidification, jellyfish now rule the seas. Take advantage of their brazen ecological domination by capturing bioluminescent jellies in jars of acidic seawater and stringing the jars together into a set of lanterns that will bring a soft glow into the pitch dark of your isolated hideout.

The psychological distraction they offer makes the painful jellyfish stings all worth it.

3.

Jewelry: Plastic six-pack rings may have killed off scores of marine animals, but they also make adorable bracelets. Cigarette butts can be used as charms for earrings or pendants. A discarded tire is particularly versatile and can be worn as a headdress, a neck ruff, or a very ostentatious belt. The world is literally littered with possibilities!

7.

Furniture: This is a bigger project, but by now you’re an upcycling pro. Furnish your tiny living quarters with a neat armoire made from the whale skeletons that keep washing up on the nearby shore. First, choose one that’s relatively intact and not too small, but also not too unwieldy for you to drag back to your elevator car. Prop up the ribcage so that it stands upright, and place a segment of the spine on top. Hang your garments from the knobs in the vertebrae, and you’re done! Celebrate, and then weep for what’s left of humanity.

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Quiz

What Disease Do You Have?

Think you have a disease? Diagnose yourself with this simple, medically accurate quiz!* Check the next page for your diagnosis.

1. You’ve just stepped out of the shower, and are checking out your naked body in the bathroom mirror. After whistling with appreciation and doing the thing where you make pistols with your fingers, something strange catches your eye. What is it? a. Buboes in my armpits and groin b. Hives forming the shape of an L on my forehead c. An extremely lifelike tattoo of the Pope that I have no recollection of getting d. My extremely large genitals e. I am slowly but surely turning into a werewolf 2. You are attempting a very complex yoga pose called “Fighting Octopus.” But just as you’re wrapping your arm around your left butt cheek, you feel a sharp twinge of pain. Where is this pain, and how would you describe it? a. Like a fire in my mouth b. Like a thousand daggers, straight to my solar plexus c. Like a wedgie, but in my brain d. A small quiver of emotion in the shriveled organ I call my heart e. A feeling of profound emptiness in my wallet 3. You’ve been sitting in the office for days now, copy-editing a draft of the dictionary. You haven’t eaten, slept, or relieved yourself since you started, and words like “sesquipedalian” and “Episcopalian” are starting to blend together. Which bodily function is the first to shut down? a. The capacity for love

b. Tear production c. The ability to distinguish right from wrong, both morally and typographically d. The ability to distinguish right from left e. Every ability except for the ability to copy-edit 4. You’re attending a concert performed by the Berlin Philharmonic. The orchestra has just finished an achingly poignant rendition of Ravel’s Pavane for a Dead Princess, and your fellow concertgoers are dabbing away tears. During the pregnant silence following the piece, your spleen decides right then to emit a very conspicuous noise. What is it? a. Loud, uproarious laughter b. Banshee wail c. “The Vienna Philharmonic did it better!” d. Air raid sirens e. The tune to Boléro 5. How is your stool? a. Fine, thank you. b. Crispy on the outside, yielding on the inside c. IT’S EVERYWHERE d. Shitty. e. Great! I got it from IKEA for cheap.

6. You and your friends have taken a quick weekend jaunt to Death Valley. Right before you pass out from heat stroke, you see a hazy but unmistakable vision glimmering in the distance. What do you see? a. Death incarnate b. Death incarnate c. Death incarnate d. Death incarnate e. My dearly departed grandmother, smiling and beckoning

*DISCLAIMER: Diagnoses made in this quiz not actually backed up by science.

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Diagnoses: If you answered mostly As, you have ironic plague! This disease is so rare, no one’s ever heard of it. However, it has been responsible for killing off scores of bearded, skinny-jeans-clad youths. Ironic plague eats away at one’s ability to have genuine feelings, leaving the victims gaunt, artisanal-coffee-loving husks of their former selves.

If you answered mostly Bs, you have a Peanuts™ allergy! If you so much as see Snoopy’s face, you break out in hives. Every time you hear someone say “Good grief!”, you go into anaphylactic shock. Viewing the Peanuts movies or the musical adaptation, You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown, triggers immediate death.

easily contract this disease through kissing—but what makes stereonucleosis much more virulent and rare is that you can only get it by kissing two or more people at the same time.

If you answered mostly Ds, you have hermit crabs! They’ve taken up residence in your pubes. But don’t worry—they will rarely emerge from their tiny shells to bother you, except when it’s time for them to move to larger shells. Then they’ll begin constructing them out of your pubes.

If you answered mostly Es, you have a gold deficiency! Symptoms include reading Forbes magazine and sighing loudly, setting up an alchemy lab in your basement, and panning your local river. You may also be a dragon.

If you answered mostly Cs, you have stereo! Like its better-known counterpart mono, you can

Potpourri The Making Of: The Editors’ Note

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Wolf in sheep’s clothing $6,666

Hippopotamus $10,000

It looks like a sheep, feels like a sheep, and smells like a sheep, but it can rend a small deer to shreds in about a minute. Just don’t try to shear it—it never grows back.

This ferocious, man-eating, blood-sweating juggernaut will ensure that its recipients will be the baddest kids on the block. Nobody’s ever going to steal their lunch money ever again. They will also lose all of their friends.

Pair of giant squid $2,000,000 Giant squid are large and mysterious, but don’t seem to have any particular use. But this special offer includes both a male and a female, so they’ll never be wanting for a giant squid again. It’s the gift that just keeps on giving.

Unicorn $10,000,000,000 Who doesn’t want a unicorn???

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$0.02 or your first-born child 14