Funfetti Teens Volume 1 by Funfetti Teens

ファンフェッチは本当に小気味よい口爆発 funfetti is such delight. each bite an explosion; color in my mouth —Sarah-Jane Lorenzo

Snackwave: the trendy term for the young people’s obsession with a particular aesthetic of unhealthy, snack-oriented food. Also the fitting (and looselyimposed) theme for this innaugural edition of Funfetti Teens, the magazine that fiercely believes in disseminating things made by Millennials with remarkably little care for the genre, type, and quality of the actual content. That’s not to disparage the pieces published herein: the wit and talent and effort invested in these works far exceeded my expectations for a project that began as a joke. Diverse and exciting content flowed in from surprising sources, a wizardly layout editor materialized, and the Funfetti Dream became a Funfetti Reality. Far from a mere snack, Funfetti Teens is a meal of many and multifarious pleasures. Naturally, thanks to a great deal of laziness and apathy on the part of yours truly, this edition was completed extremely late and wildly over-budget. Yet here it is. And by way of thanks to the talented young folk who made this possible, I’d like to paraphrase that great orator, Shia S. LaBeouf: thanks for not letting our Funfetti Teens be dreams. Keep having those dreams, Funfetti Teens. —Kieran J. Connolly, “editor”

Funfetti Teens Volume 1

COVER The Battle Flags of Snackwave — photograph, Kieran Connolly (image editing advice: Thomas Günther Estabrook & Serena Hocharoen) 4

“Hamburger” by Stanislav Silov: A Google Translation — Google Translate, ed. Kieran Connolly

Print 3.0: A News Media Page-Venture — Samuel Chott

Organic Farms, Normcore Food, and the Immortal Science of Despair — Thomas Günther Estabrook

P(izza)-Shirt — an art, Giuseppe Vitellaro

Which Conifer Are You? — quiz, Sarah Connolly

Consider the McGriddle™ — Owen Smith

How To Overthrow Capitalism, The Patriarchy, And All Forms Of Oppression Without Ever Leaving Starbucks — Sandy Barnard

Salvation in Plato and Christianity — Dominic LaMantia

Ultron — an art, Paul Fister

Which Tragic Literary Life Will You Lead? — quiz, Elana Spivack

16 Bryne — photograph, Ian Malone 20

Aesop’s Foibles — KC Skeldon

The Long Face — an art, Kieran Connolly

Funfetti + Teens — an art, Liam Connolly

Snack Hell — an art, Serena Hocharoen

“Editing” by Kieran Connolly Layout by Giuseppe Vitellaro 3

“Hamburger” by Stanislav Silov: A Google Translation Editor’s Note: Granting a genuine glimpse of another culture is the ultimate aim of the translator, and this translation of “Gamburger” (or “Hamburger”), a poem by little-known Russian and former McDonald’s cashier Stanislav Silov, is exactly such an insight. The translator in this case, however, is no human—instead, by dint of technological progress, this is a poem translated entirely by computer software, Google’s Translate app. The translation faithfully maintains the sparkling prose and bitter, impassioned fury of the original. As such, this first English edition bears witness to the power of technology to bring us all a little closer together. —Kieran Connolly ГАМБУРГЕР Двери “Макдональдса” ищет рука: Зомби решил заморить червячка. Рядом с таким же за столик присел, И проступило на лбу: “USA”.

HAMBURGER Doors “McDonald’s” is looking for a hand: Zombie decided to stay one’s stomach. Next to a table in the same squatted down, and stood out on his forehead: “USA”.

В гамбургер сладкий зубы вонзились, И надо всею огромной Россией Стон разлетелся, согнулись березы, Реками хлынули горькие слезы

The hamburger sweet teeth sank, and need all the huge Russian Stone shattered, bent birch Rivers flooded bitter tears

Птицы печальную песню запели, Вмиг облетели могучие ели, Иглами были заколоты дети, Трупы медведи нашли на рассвете.

Birds sing a sad song, Trice circled mighty spruce, Needles were stabbed children bears corpses found at dawn.

Кто-то бесстрашно шагнул из окна: “Жизнь цвета доллара мне не нужна!” Мерзко смеясь со стены мавзолея, Наркопарад принимали два гея.

Someone fearlessly stepped out of the window: “Life is the color of the dollar I do not need!” disgusting laughing from the wall of the mausoleum, Narkoparad took two gay men.

А между тем в кровожадную пасть Гамбургер новый грозился упасть. В масле трансгенном измазана харя: Жрет дерьмократ в либеральном угаре!

Meanwhile, in the jaws of bloodthirsty new Hamburger threatened to fall. In a transgenic oil smeared mug: 4

Флаг полосатый целует развратно: “Американец? Очень приятно!” Русская дрогнула матка-земля, Рог сатанинский попер из Кремля.

dermokraty eating frenzy in a liberal! Striped flag kisses dissolute: “An American? Very nice!” Russian-earth trembled uterus, Horn satanic Popper from the Kremlin.

Богу взмолился смиренный Кирилл: “Чем сию кару народ заслужил?” “Встань, православный, - Господь перебил. Гамбургер в жизни своей истреби!”

Cyril prayed to God humble: “The people of this very deserved punishment?” “Arise, Orthodox - Lord interrupted. Hamburger in his life utterly destroy!”

И поднялась под хоругвями рать Всем ненавистный “биг-мак” убивать. Слава России, ракета “Цхинвал” Звезды и полосы враз разорвал!

And there arose under the banners Men Everybody hated “Big Mac” kill. Glory to Russia, the missile “Tskhinvali” Stars and Stripes at once ripped!

Слава России, ракета “Сухум” Детям доставила сладкий лукум. Слава России, великий орел Натовских летчиков в космос увел

Glory to Russia, the missile “Sukhumi” Babies delivered a sweet delight. Glory to Russia, the great eagle NATO pilots led off into space

И расцвела благодарная Русь, Как от нее нереально я прусь! Хочешь и ты свою душу спасти? Крестного хода лови позитив!

And blossomed grateful Russia, from her How I prus unreal! You want to and you save your soul? Religious procession Catch positive!

Звоны скорей на мобилу качай, Божий закон изучай, не скучай! Если ты молод и полон сил, Фишку паси, затуси на Руси!

Chimes soon on mobile swing, the law of God explore, do not miss! If you are young and full of energy, Feed The chip, zatusit in Russia!

Искренне ваш, Станислав Силов

Sincerely yours, Stanislav Silov

PRINT MEDIA 3.0: A NEWS MEDIA PAGE-VENTURE It’s often been noted that publishers of traditional media are perpetually lagging behind publishers on the internet, both in terms of content and delivery. No matter how timely the reporting, print media can never keep up with the instant coverage that today’s consumers find very ‘fleek’. Similarly, print can never satisfy the demand for on-the-fly content display decisions that media giants such as Facebook, Google, and Twitter take advantage of. As we say around the office, there are no ‘likes’ for disappointment, and no ‘retweets’ for consumers reading unsuitable content. Until now. Using an incredibly disruptive content suitability suite, we’re proud to share with you the results of years of work. With algorithms integrating data from sources as diverse as predictive policing databases, healthcare information servers, and federal detention facility records, we’re able to form a picture of tomorrow’s stories, today. And thanks to invasive consumer demographics, we can now truly bring you Your News, Your Way. We think it’s pretty ‘fuck boy’. Welcome to Print 3.0. If you are under the age of 25, continue to TITLE A If you are between 25 and 50, continue to TITLE B If you are above 50, continue to TITLE C

What This Man Did Will Warm Your Heart. The Feels!

Louisiana Man Gives Homeless Woman Money

Lazy Woman Leeches Off Of Man

Continue to PARAGRAPH D

Statistical analysis showed a 94.7% chance that today, in Louisiana, a man will have given money to a homeless woman. If you are interested in Pepsico Products, continue to PARAGRAPH E If your household income is above $40,000 a year, continue to PARAGRAPH F If your household income is below $40,000 a year, continue to PARAGRAPH G

Whether this was an act of charity or an example of a misguided industrialist propping up a lazy leech off of society, what everyone agrees on is that the great taste of Pepsi makes every day better. Whether in the swampy heat of Louisiana or the swampy racism of Louisiana, the timeless American pastime of drinking Pepsi is appropriate for everyone, whether rich or homeless, but is best appreciated by those of your socioeconomic class and immigration status, who are truly the people that made America great. Continue to PARAGRAPH H

The man faces sharp disapproval from the community at large, according to certain examples. “I just don’t know where this came from,” is something that our algorithms indicate that the man’s mother may say. “I certainly didn’t raise my son to support the unemployed.” The man’s father will be unavailable for comment, as he’ll statistically be on a trip to the lake with his buds. Continue to PARAGRAPH H

G H

The community at large is proud of the man, according to the average values of much of the United States. “System unable to be loaded,” said the man’s supervisor at <?php{employer_name(options: {location: Louisiana, gender: male})}>. “Error in article_low_incomeTraceback: customize_article: 392article_generator: 141koch_brothers_news_generator: 1049” added a coworker. Continue to PARAGRAPH H This thrilling news story was brought to you by Print 3.0. Due to a limited development time, and a lack of space, we’ve been unable to bring you the full experience of having news stories on current topics customized to conform to your existing worldview. By the end of this fiscal year, we hope to have the technology to filter content based on race, gender, political views, and more, and with an additional round of investment, we should be able to make facts completely optional in the reporting process. Today’s tomorrow can now be tomorrow’s yesterday. Today.

Organic Farms, Normcore Food, and the Immortal Science of Despair Thomas Günther Estabrook

very once in a while, one finds one’s self in farm field holding a five gallon bucket of human urine and wondering “how did I get here?” It happened to me this summer. I was interning on an organic anarchist farm, experiencing all the many ways one can become covered in various types of dirt. Immersed in this agricultural milieu, I naturally spent a lot of time thinking about food and the systems that govern its production. Thankfully, I’m not actually going to talk about any of that. Upon returning to civilization and its internet and flushing toilets, I was introduced to what I’d missed in the latest pop-culinary aesthetics trends: normcore food and snackwave. While the latter has blessed us with a plethora of delightful inanities like hamburger dresses and pizza-print accessories, the former seems (so far) only capable of spawning facile and pretentious think-pieces. Not wanting to miss an opportunity for pompous irony, I felt I had to write one of my own. When I first heard about normcore food, I felt almost nothing. It provoked slightly more excitement than, say, an unfunny meme, and slightly less than a funny meme. In other words, normcore food is itself a normcore phenomenon. The very idea of warring hipster aesthetics being applied to food is completely saturated with mediocrity. It’s

non-humor, spun out of a wearily ironic non-fashion trend, perfectly calibrated to produce barely audible non-laughter in jaded, hyper-connected non-people. It’s perfectly meta-humorous recursion, a Moebius strip of ennui and boredom. Laughing about normcore food is like laughing at how repulsive Donald Trump is. It’s cathartic for a moment, a chance to bond with your liberal friends, but at the end of the day he’s still a billionaire projecting his reptilian face into millions of TV screens and wielding influence over the American political process. The emperor may have no clothes, but the joke is really on all the people who have to see his phallus swinging back and forth as he parades proudly down the street. The people who point and laugh don’t recognize the hopelessness of their situation. Every essay about normcore food—every attempt to make sense of the madness—just legitimizes the absurdity. Of course, I don’t hate the food itself. I can enjoy bland kung pao chicken as much as anyone else (or at least I could, were it not for my peanut allergy). I ate so much normcore-epitomizing Stonyfield yogurt this summer that people started calling it “Thomas-protein.” No, what really arouses my postmodern ire is the act of designating these foods as “normcore,” of enfolding even the most basic comestibles into the nihilistic 8

hipster-industrial complex. Normcore food is the food of despair. In “The New Attorney,” Kafka wrote, “Even in those days India’s gates were unattainable, but their direction was designated by the royal sword. Today the gates have been shifted elsewhere and higher and farther away; nobody points out their direction; many hold swords, but only to flourish them, and the glance that tries to follow them becomes confused.” That was then. Today, all the swords point to one place. It’s the Gateway to India Buffet, where you can listlessly chuckle about bland all-you-can-eat Indian food for $7.99. When it stops being funny, the swords will just point somewhere else.

When normcore food wins, when human love and compassion have atrophied away to nothing, when the Last Man quietly blinks, when the capitalist machine has melted the ice-caps and colonized our DNA and ascended to a formless, transhuman network of endlessly flowing capital, what will save us? The answer, I believe, is another food aesthetic: snackwave. As the dialectical opposite of normcore food, only it can advance history and lead to newer and better memes. Could it be that in the gooey proletarian crunch of a hot-pocket, in the coagulated labor-power of a cheeseburger, and yes, in a slice of funfetti cake, our humanity will be recovered, bite by bite? 9

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�oursel�. �or�a� ��ruce: You mi�ht be a little �uiet at �irst� but like the �or�a� ��ruce� once �ou are com�ortable �ou have the abilit� to brin� man� �eo�le to�ether �or a �ood time. You have an old soul.

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Lebanon Cedar: �ome �eo�le see �ou as m�sterious because �ou love to kee� �our secretes. Ho�ever� �ou are read� to �art� �ith �ust about an�one. You also value �our histor�� much like the Lebanon Cedar.

�hite �ir: You love a �ood celebration �ust like the �hite �ir� �hich is a �o�ular Christmas tree. Ho�ever� �ou sometimes �eel like �ou �ollo� the cro�d and con�orm too much.

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�a�anese �ed �ine: Like the �a�anese �ed �ine� �ou like to look �ood and sho� it o��. You love bein� the center o� attention and surroundin� �oursel� �ith lots o� �riends. 11

n all honesty, the McDonald’s™ McGriddle™ Breakfast Sandwich should not be allowed to exist. I say this not out of some moral outrage over this obvious Frankenstein’s monster of breakfast foods, nor at some misguided outrage over the lack of nutritional supplements and over-saturation of calories in breakfast foods nowadays, but rather out of pure cynicism in recognition that the ugly world we live in does not deserve such a wonder. The planet earth is an imperfect, flawed place. Disease, warfare, poverty, hunger, hatred, and a million other horrendous things, from ISIS execution videos to the Icescapades™ fester within above and within our planet’s crust, seeping through the atmosphere and into our souls, an original sin built not from God’s displeasure, but from our planet’s own inherent ugliness. The McGriddle™, with its delicious pancake bun, perfectly restraining the deliciously salty flavor of some re-rerefried bacon and a slab of cheese product, all of this highlighted by the fluffy delicacy of some sort of egg patty thing… is simply too good for this world. In a universe that currently hurtles toward a heat-death through the chilling grip of entropy, the McGriddle™ is simply too bright a beacon of hope, too wondrous a thing to exist amongst the chaos and misery that is our life. Like dropping a cherub into Satan’s lap, 12

this young little marvel simply does not deserve to be surrounded by such horrors. In all honesty, sometimes I fear that the McGriddle™ is simply a figment of my imagination. Many a time before have I had dreams to sweet to believe, leaving me gasping for air and aching from depression as I realized by deepest desires will never be realized. And that same overwhelming melancholia strikes me with every bite of this delicious sandwich, each blended bite of pancake, cheese, egg, and bacon filling me like manna to Moses, pointing to almost a religious significance to the world. And yet I can’t help but feel unworthy, as if I were but a single wretch glimpsing some fragment of utopia. It is true pain. To quote late youtuber Mannix the Pirate, “If McDonald’s™ ever cancels the McGriddle™, I will walk right into the middle of the restaurant and blow my brains out.” Despite the morbidity of such a sentiment, I can’t help but agree. The McGriddle™ represents simply too much to humanity, to the point where I can’t imagine how we ever lived without it. Mankind has, since our inception, striven to achieve some sort of meaning or significance, to attach an endgoal to our short time on this spheroid rock. And I will gladly posit that the McGriddle™ is the answer to this quest, shining as a beacon to us in the darkness of our own confusion. Nothing else in history can bring so much joy through such simplicity, offering to each that partakes of it a chance to experience bliss on a level mortals can barely comprehend. Unless you’re Jewish, I suppose. Maybe you could pick the bacon off? —Owen Smith

How To Overthrow Capitalism, The Patriarchy, And All Forms Of Oppression Without Ever Leaving Starbucks Sandy Barnard

1. Walk into Starbucks. Feel a little overwhelmed by the almost-kitschy aesthetic of wood-paneling and grunge. 2. Order a tall, soy latte with no sugar. You have no need for any display of excess, but you don’t want a tummy ache while you’re fighting the forces of evil. 3. Pay for your coffee. It’s only money, after all. If you didn’t spend it here, you would just buy something else. There is no ethical consumption under capitalism. So buy it. Just reach into your pocket. Take out your wallet. It’s fine. You just need to do it. Look at your money. Whether cash or card, REALLY look at it. Hand it to the cashier. It’s fine. 4. Choose a seat close to a window. Natural light is important. 5. Take out your computer and open up 3 tabs: Change.org, Everyday Feminism, and 4chan. Make sure you have Tab For A Cause turned on, or this has all been for nothing. 6. Spend exactly 15 minutes signing petitions on Change.org. Around minute 12, you will look at the numbers adding up, thousands of people believing in the same thing, and realize that the power of the people, truly, don’t stop. Do not get overwhelmed, though, and move on. 7. Everyday Feminism is obvious. Read, and leave plenty of comments. 8. Take a diversion into Facebook. Share every post that Occupy Democrats has made today. Every single one. This may seem like a daunting task, but it will be worth it in the end. 9. Go to 4chan, Reddit, or some other bastion of evil. Take the time to correct the anonymous blowhards on why they are wrong. Link them to thinkpieces you have written or favorited. 10. Go back to Facebook, to look at pictures of your niece’s graduation. Your brother-in-law’s terrible mother will comment on these pictures. Remind her of all the reasons not to vote for Ben Carson. She’ll come around. And anyways, she has more granddaughters whose pictures you can comment on, so it’s not like she won’t be hearing from you. 11. You may be feeling sleepy after all of your hard work. Order a grande caramel macchiato. You’ve earned it. 12. Repeat steps 6-11 until capitalism has been destroyed. Congratulations on your good work, comrade! 13

Salvation in Plato and Christianity Dominic LaMantia

n The Republic, Plato captures a fundamental truth concerning the human condition: we cannot properly function and live our lives well without the transcendent gifts of the divine, in the form of the light of the Good. However, Plato argues that there are very few philosophers—that is, very few people who have seen the light of the Good—and therefore very few people who can be saved from a life in the shadows. Christianity has a different perspective on “saving” people from a life in the shadows and sin, one that is much more inclusive than restricting salvation to philosophers. Not everyone can be a philosopher, but everyone can obey divine authority and participate in sacraments that further the process of being taken up into the divine life of God which is theosis. Of course there is still room from the mystical philosophers like Plato in the Church— St. Bonaventure is an example—but one need not be skilled in dialectic in order to be achieve our end. The reason behind this is the incarnation. Chesterton points out that the most stables in Bethlehem at the time of Christ would have been inside of caves (The Everlasting Man, The God in the Cave, 132). The fact Christ was born into this world, in a cave, uproots the Platonic solution. We are not stuck in the cave waiting to

be realized to leave it while the light of the good remains outside. Instead, in the Christian vision, the Sun/Son Himself entered into the cave and lived with the shadow-dwellers. The light of the Good broke into the cave. The Sun itself was staring at shadows on the wall. Christ, fully God and thus fully the Good, and fully man and thus material, sanctified materiality and made it holy. The Christian does not live in Plato’s world of shadows now, but a world where flesh and spirit are reconciled and made one; a world where “every little leaf is striving towards the Word, sings glory to God, weeps to Christ,” as Dostoevsky said (The Brothers Karamazov, 295). No longer can just the philosophers come to the Good, but because the Good entered into the world, all can: “had Plato…stood for an instant in the light that came out of that little cave, [he] would have known that [his] own light was not universal” (The Everlasting Man, The God in the Cave, 140). The philosophers do have a place in the Church; as Chesterton points out, the three wise men who came to worship the infant Jesus were stargazers and philosophers. But the shepherds, men purely of myth and lore and fairytales—men who dwelt in the shadows— came too. For Christ and His Church are for all.

14 14

News

Buzz

Life

Quizzes

Videos

Which Tragic Literary Life Will You Lead? You will: Awaken an enormous insect and die a lonesome death! You’re totally a Gregor, and all your friends know it! You know what that means: despite your best efforts to help them, they just don’t want you screwing up the status quo. But for all your generosity, you die quietly so your loved ones may flourish! Check yourself the next time you wake up from unsettling dreams!

You will: Obsess endlessly over your sister/girlfriend and dig up her corpse!

Helloooo, Heathcliff! You’re the tall, dark, and handsome stranger everyone wants a piece of. But slow down, Romeo (sorry – wrong protagonist!), because you have the hots for your sister, or she might as well be your sister, anyway. Your snooty family will be at your mercy as you lose it a little more each day. All in all, you’re really way more crazy than you are handsome, and few people are into someone with a good case of the 19th-century crazies. 16

You will: Obsess endlessly over your sister/girlfriend and try to reanimate her corpse! You may be Victor, but you’re certainly no winner. After your accidental-on-purpose zombie monster annihilates your beloved (*sad face*), you’ll seek revenge by creating another monster from her lifeless, strangled meat sack. Heads up: things don’t go super well.

You will: Drive your family to ruin in the pursuit of a utilitarian life during the Industrial Revolution! You know what grinds your gears? Not getting your money’s worth! You’re a real family man (there’s Louisa, Tom, Jane, little Adam Smith, and young Malthus) and everyone adores you, but watch your back. You’re prone to overlook what really matters in favor of money—but let’s face it, money is what really matters. Also, don’t sell your daughter’s future. Dick move, bro.

You will: Have an illicit affair with a Russian aristocrat that ultimately costs you your life! Annie, honey, try OkPutin instead.

You will: Go mad and murder your whole family and/or court

Keep it moving, Hamlet/Macbeth/King Lear/Jack Torrence.

You will: Go mad because every man in your life is a self-absorbed, pompous, mole-faced skeeze! We hear you. Daddy issues, brother issues, absent-mommy issues, possible-one-time sexual partner issues. But having a one-night-stand doesn’t make him your bae, nor does it change the fact that he’s a crazed man-child who believes in ghosts. You can do better; just avoid long walks along rivers.

You will: Spend your life searching for a whale! Go on a pleasure cruise instead.

—Elana Spivack 18

Aesop’s Foibles KC Skeldon I. A horse walks into a bar. The bartender says, “Why the long face?” The horse sighs. He has come to this bar for release, and he can’t even get a goddamn shot of whiskey, let alone the trough he wants to drink, before this community college dropout is on his mane. He composes himself. “Long story. Whiskey sour, straight up.” The bartender grabs a glass. “I’m listening. It’s my job, man. Seriously. What’s up?” It’s all the horse can do not to flare his nostrils. “Fine. Yeah, so, I came back to the stable after a long day at the glue factory, my flank is killing me, and what do I see but my main mare making the beast with eight hooves. With this total stud from a few stalls over.” “Ouch.” The bartender takes a swig from his own drink. The horse stares at him, and the bartender realizes that he never gave the horse his drink. He slides it over, not apologetically enough, in the horse’s opinion. The horse throws back the drink. “Yeah. It’s a load of horsefeathers. And he’s definitely knocked her up.” The bartender looks at the horse. “Guess you’re none too fond of your neigh-bor, then.” The horse looks at him. “Fuck you.” He turns, his tail knocking over his empty glass. A horse walks out of a bar. 20

II. Why did the chicken cross the road? Not to get to the other side, Phil thinks. What’s the point? His life is still the same on the other side of this busy intersection. Dead-end job. Colossal mortgage on the coop. A hen who clucks disapprovingly at the mere sight of him (and he knows he’s a cluckold; he’s not that dumb, though he wishes he were). Chicks who chirp deafeningly and eat up his grain salary. He steels his beak, looking forward. Cars fly by. he wants to wait for an eighteenwheeler; that way, no one will notice. He doesn’t want anyone else involved. He’s not worth it. He’s not going to do that thing where he gets worried and doesn’t go through with the plan. He’s going to go forth and… He halts. He thinks there might be a more concise word for that. It’s on the tip of his beak. What was it… Oh. Chicken. Yeah. He shouldn’t waste space on this planet any longer. He breathes in. There’s a Wal-Mart truck coming, it should reach him in ten… nine… Nope. He can’t wing it. He’ll go into the local KFC tomorrow and surrender. Maybe they’ll send his family a side of corn. III. If I have to hear that joke one more time, I’m not getting up the next time those kids tip me. The gals in the pasture tell it all day long. They don’t even look to see if I’m nearby anymore. “Knock knock!” Daisy will say to Clara. “Who’s there?” Clara will say through her cud, struggling not to laugh. She’s going to choke if she doesn’t stop talking with her mouth full. Not that I’d have 21

a problem with that. A burger certainly has a more tolerable presence that she does. Daisy always has to straighten out her face before the next part. “Interrupting Bessie!” Clara’s udders are usually leaking with excitement by this point. “Inter…rupting…Bessie…wh-” It takes Clara so long to get the words out, it makes the whole thing that much dumber. “MOOOOOOO!” But behind that moo, there is a thundering release of gas. And every time I hear that boom of bovine air, my heart fills with sadness. I didn’t ask to be a lactose intolerant cow. I didn’t want to become Willow Farm’s primary ozone layer-depleter. I want to make pies, not methane. But as long as they keep milking that joke, I’ll have to suffer in silence. Well, not complete silence. “BESSIE!” Damn.