Volume 110 Number 4 by Gargoyle Humor Magazine

Leaving the Nest Vol. 110 No. 4

Volume CX, Number 4 Winter 2019

S TA F F

case you didn’t know, this is the no-list issue. The layman might ask, Iyoun“well then how are you going to have the list of contributors then huh bet didn’t think of that let’s please stop doing schticks and just write good

content please, we don’t need these kitschy creative constraints they feel like premises for shitty improv games and writing exercises for highschoolers?” Well we have an answer. Here’s an extraordinarily low-quality story featuring every contributor (and some non-contributors) to this issue. I wrote some parts of this while drunk, try to guess which. “Well, doctor, I’d say it started to go south around the end of my Junior year.” It was clear that Jenny “Unresolved Issues” Ghose was about to make a breakthrough. “Our creations starting creeping their way into my real life.” She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Tell me more about how your business manager brought The Dream Wars to your attention.” probed Dr. Brianna “Boopy Snoopy” Kucharski. “Well, the business manager at the time, Molly ‘Give Me an Internship’ Miller was trying out a new team-building exercise where we all lay on our backs in a circle and put our heads in the middle, and dream the same dream.” “You...you...how” stammered Dr. Kucharski. “Let me finish. We tried it once or twice, just me, Molly, and Michael ‘Skipledee Scoop’ Rosenberg, and I felt like it was really helping connect us. We were finishing each other’s—” The doctor coughed really loudly. “What? Anyways once we invited Colleen ‘Absent Father’ Hillard into the mix, things got...competitive. We found out there was suppressed beef between literally every pair of people, and it all came to the surface in Dream Land.” “This feuding,” inquired Dr. Kucharski, “it presumably turned into the War, yes? And when did the things from Dream Land start breaking out?” “I’m getting there, jeez. You know, you’re getting paid the same no matter how quickly you speak, right?” Jenny shifted in her chair again—her back was killing her. As she re-positioned her leg, it grazed a ridge on the seat bottom. She looked down. Her entire face widened. It was Fiona “I Love Chair” Tien’s own Vagina-Chair, cum to life. Jenny freaked the fuck out and ran out of the office, without so much as leaving a tip. “She’ll be back” smirked Dr. Kucharski. She coughed wildly. * * * Thirty minutes later, Jenny barged back in the office, out of breath. She pretended nothing had happened, despite the fact that Isabel A. “All Changes Saved in Drive” Hedin-Urrutia was now sitting across from Dr. Kucharski, clearly in the middle of an appointment. “So as I was saying,” Jenny began, shoeing Izzy out of the room, “it got competitive. Molly was building massive granite columns, and Colleen just had to outdo her with

Direct all complaints, comments, submissions, and proclamations to

The Gargoyle Lipsey Student Pub Bld 420 Maynard Ann Arbor, MI 48109

gargoyle@umich.edu ~ Visit us at: www.gargmag.com

even bigger columns of rice pudding. It went from a game to a serious endeavor pretty quickly. Soon, Molly had recruited Max ‘Who Me?’ Lee along with Natasha ‘I Only Eat Bread’ Pietruschka, and Margaret ‘Crabapple’ Trudeau.” “You know I don’t know who any of these people are, right?” wheezed Dr. Kucharski. “So Colleen, in turn, mustard a trio of Sabrina ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ Corsetti, Marjorie ‘Sloppy Joe’ Gaber, and Shannon ‘Dust Buster’ Zheng.” Jenny paused to catch her breath. She must’ve ran a fucking marathon. “Things got fierce. They began sabotaging each others’ creations. Eventually, most of their time was spent destroying rather than creating. The shades finally arrived because they could sniff the beef from dreammiles away. We saw—” Dr. Kucharski interrupted with a colossal sneeze. “Sneeze! Did you say shades?” “Yes, dead people from the land neighboring Dream Land—Dead People Land. They began picking sides. The late ghost of Nathan ‘Feedback Loophole’ Slaven was the first to pledge allegiance to Colleen, followed by the ghost of Jessica “Doting Eyes and Crocheting Teas” Tinor. The other side was just as powerful: it was Duncan “Don’t Put IV After my Name Please” Reitz IV, who led Hannah “Anyway Here’s Creep by Radiohead” Groenke into battle. They were fucking brutal, doc. You should’ve seen the destruction. Rice pudding splattered as far as the eye could see.” “...did you and Michael take sides during any of this?” asked Dr. Kucharski, trying her best to sniffle, but her nose was completely stuffed. “Oh, Michael fucked off and went home pretty early into this. But I stayed around and took minutes.” “How did you manage to take minutes? I thought you can’t write in dreams.” “I mean I literally removed minutes from time itself. It wasn’t very effective. So there both teams were, destroying things as fast as possible, while the ghosts of Jacob “Grandmaster Flunk” Katzman and Jeremy “No I’ve Always Been Here” Ritz built up structures that broke beyond the boundaries of DreamLand into WakeyLand. Meanwhile Sam “Live Ménos” Zylstra and Jamie “Paint Chips” McClellan did the same damn thing for the other team.” “Alright, wrap it up, we’re running out of space and I’m running out of DayQuil,” said the Doc, who managed her addictions quite seamlessly for a psychiatrist. “Ok ok well Sophie ‘What’s That I Hear?’ Mirza descended from The Lordy’s seat Himself and told us all to put down our arms. Just after we took off our arms, standing there like a bunch of fuckin birds, Lauren “I Guess” Kuzee rised up from the Cosmic Oobleck over Up On High and blips us out. Straight blips us.” “And Connor?” “Oh, Connor. Connor C. “No, Plan A actually was Living in a Van” Davis did exactly what we expected him to do the entire time.” “And what’s that?” “We’re not sure.”

Winter 2019

Excerpt, The New Yorker — Sunday 1/6/19

Ask the Ethicist Edward Pimsley, Ph.D., Computational Metaphysics Dear Edward, About a week ago, my husband came home after a long night out, merry as could be. He hadn't responded to any of my texts all night. When he walked into the living room, he saw that I was writing at my desk, so he snuck out of the room, leaving a silent gust of boozey breath behind him. He went upstairs, showered, and came back into the living room. Still tipsy, he creeped over to my desk, kissed me on the top of my head goodnight, and went to bed. Edward, I'm not worried about losing my husband to another woman. What's keeping me awake most nights is the fear that I'm losing him to his friends. I used to be invited to all of their hangouts. I did my best to fit in with the group, and I think I did really well. I participated in friendly banter and kept my mouth shut when the guys made references to a show or movie I hadn't seen. I didn't love the company, but it was clear that my husband did, so I soldiered on and told myself that my people skills could only improve by being "one of the boys". But over time, I started hearing about their hang-outs just as my husband was leaving the house, and then, not at all. I can't for the life of me tell why they started cutting me out, but I feel like it's affecting my relationship with my husband. A lot of his jokes are completely meaningless to me now, and he's finding less and less time to spend time doing things as a couple. He doesn't

Excerpt, The New Yorker — Sunday 1/13/19

Ask the Ethicist Edward Pimsley, Ph.D., Computational Metaphysics Dear Edward, My wife has been telling me lately that I’m spending too much time with my friends, and some therapist or philosopher friend of hers told her that she could set my boundaries for me. This feels like it’s coming out of nowhere. My wife used to chill with me and my friends pretty often, but over time she started to bother even the most patient members of the group. When we’d go to the movies, she’d shout quips at the screen throughout the film, which is embarrassing enough as it is, but they weren’t even funny. They were just kind of social-justicey with a loose connection to what was happening in the movie. Also, when me and the guys were bantering back and forth, she would sometimes just go off on one of them, like, really leaning into him. I told her in private that that’s not okay, but she said that she “was just kidding” and to “stop being a little bitch,” which is frankly hurtful and dismissive. I didn’t think it would be a complete surprise to her that we

even know my interests anymore. For example, I hinted for months that I wanted a New Yorker subscription, but when Christmas came, I got a juicer. Never once had I mentioned a juicer. I ended up returning it and bought myself my own subscription. I don't want to tell him that he can't see his friends anymore, because he genuinely loves them, but I don't know how to make him spend more time with me instead. Asking to be invited again would lead to a situation far more awkward than I'm prepared to deal with. What is the right thing to do? Sincerely, 7th wheeling Dear 7th wheeling, It seems that your participation in that friend group was a mistake to begin with. The fact that you felt like you had to play a character every time you were with your husband's friends should indicate to you that maybe they're not the right group for you to hang out with. I think it would be less stressful and far more fun for you to find a group of people you genuinely get along with, and hang out with them instead. As far as spending time with your husband, I think clear and honest communication is the first step. Try to make times in advance that you and your husband can do things together during the week. It seems boring and adult, but being considerate is also boring and adult. You don't have to throw spontaneity out the window, but adding some more routine to your life could not hurt in this case. Best of luck, Edward

stopped inviting her to things, but she’s certainly acting like it is. I don’t want to trudge up negativity from the past, especially if there’s no chance we invite her back. How do I respond to her encroachment on my freedom of association? Sincerely, Mediating madness Dear Mediating, If you and your friends are all in agreement that this social group would be better off without your wife, then re-inviting her would be imposing to everyone involved, including yourself. You should support your wife in her own interests and hobbies and help her find a different group of people with whom she has more in common. If you don’t know these details about her, this also presents a great opportunity to learn more about your partner. As far as spending time with your wife, I think clear and honest communication is the first step. Try to make times in advance that you and your wife can do things together during the week. It seems boring and adult, but being considerate is also boring and adult. You don’t have to throw spontaneity out the window, but adding some more routine to your life could not hurt in this case. Best of luck, Edward

Excerpt, The New Yorker — Sunday 1/20/19

Ask the Ethicist Edward Pimsley, Ph.D., Computational Metaphysics Dear Edward, That was definitely my husband you published last week. What a load of trash. “Encroachment on my freedom of association?” I ask to see him at least one night a week and suddenly he’s Ben Franklin and I’m the goddamn British. And for the record, my insults were no worse than any of the other insults the guys were throwing around that night. There are definitely elements of both fragile and toxic masculinity at play in that group. You wouldn’t think the two go together, but boy do they make it work. My husband is getting more neglectful by the day. If you need any proof of this, look no further than the fact that he wouldn’t have sent in last week’s letter if he had at all paid attention to my repeated requests for a subscription to this very magazine. I feel like I’m choking in the vacuum of his attention and I don’t know Excerpt, The New Yorker — Sunday 1/27/19

Ask the Ethicist Edward Pimsley, Ph.D., Computational Metaphysics Dear Edward, You are a lazy, biased hack, not worthy of a GED, let alone a PhD. Apparently selecting letters and responding to them with thoughtful advice—a job that you are paid to do—is simply too much work for you. That bitch just railed on me and my boys for two paragraphs and you decide to publish it because she sprinkled a few SJW buzzwords in? Well as long as

Winter 2019

what to do. Please give me some advice that I can use to end this weeks-long fight. And try your best not to cookie-cut your response. It’s insulting. Sincerely, Attentive enough Dear Attentive, It is not uncommon to find yourself, at some point in your professional career, in a group whose success rests solely on the work that you do. Given how long it has already been, my advice is to assume that your coworkers will continue to be unhelpful. In this case, your best option is to hunker down and get the project done as soon as possible. As for avoiding this in the future, I think clear and honest communication is the first step. Once the project is all done, approach your boss or equivalent next-higher-up. Explain to them in concrete terms how much you worked in relation to the rest of the group. If this doesn’t spur any changes in your team, you might need to consider going over your boss’s head and taking your grievances to upper management. Best of luck, Edward your standards are this low, I'll submit this for your consideration: I am currently in the process of divorcing that time-stealing moodkilling hag. Our lawyers have advised us not to communicate directly during this process, so here's hoping she sees this. I never went out with the boys because I liked them, Karen. I went out with the boys because I liked them more than you. Don't bother responding to this, Eddy; I won't read it anyway. Eat shit and die, Guess who Dear Guess, kk Best of luck, Edward

G’day! Today we will explore the wonders of woiilife in one of the most diverse ecosystems in the great American outback: a Greek fraternity house.

Let’s take a look inside. But be reeeal quiet, so we don’t disturb them in their natural state.

Welcome to Crocodile Hunter!

What are we looking at Steve?

Well mate, those there are the kings of the outback. Highly territorial and extremely dangerous.

I may know a thing or two about catching Wallabies, but these buggers will put my skills to the test.

Get off me bro! Crikey! This here’s a wiley one!

That’s a big one Steve!

t. He comLook’a this beau you’re not If t! ec sp re s nd ma ar you to careful, he’ll te a rattler! an th er st fa ds re sh go before We better let ‘im d. ke oo sp ts ge he

He thinks you’re his mother Steve!

Go on, ya little bugger! Go find your pack!

He’s got small hands, typical of these guys, but one day he’ll double in size and have little joeys of his own, so long as a croc don’t get t’im first.

Winter 2019

Next time on Crocodile Hunter: Steve and I travel back to Australia and see if we can have a threesome with a Tarantula.

Bismarck the Final Writing by Connor Davis Illustration by Shannon Zheng

he sons of bitches actually did it. Hey, I guess to each their own, right? And I got mine. I’m looking at a long drive down veterinarian lane until a cold needle prick while a different prick holds me. What? Do I got some disease or something that requires being put down? I don’t think so. Only disease I got is the slow burn of a rebellious life without compromise. And valley fever. Yeah, my knee’s fucked. But you don’t see me bobbing down the sidewalk in my owner’s purse like no lap dog. No, I’ve been my own dog. My own dog. Would I have done anything different had I known this is where I would end up? Stupid question. Life’s too busy, too full of pregnant silences and grey flowers to piss on and sidewalks to dookie on for me to reflect like that. Nobody’s gonna tell me how to go out. I didn’t choose to be part of this world. Fuck, I have a daughter. Jasmine. I guess I’m not dead yet since even in the disconnect, some part of me is swimming through her swimming through this world. I hope she’s well. Ah, fuck it. I don’t care. She’s probably in some shit town like Orlando getting fucked by a different set of monkeys. I may have brought life into this world, but I dunno, that’s kind of while I was still just going through the motions, ya know? We’re part of this world, but it took a lot of silence stuck in this house for me to realize that I am stuck in this house. I guess that’s something. But I’ll be damned if I don’t get to go out on my own terms. Or maybe I’ll be damned if I do. All dogs go to heaven, right? Heh, my monkeys never bought into any of that crap, so I should be good. Fuck it. Maybe these terms ain’t my own as much as I think they are. Or maybe the opportunity arises and is aligned with my intents and motives only when a larger dog barks. First lesson I learned in the Silence was that you can’t just shuffle off if you want to. You can’t die unless that Great Veterinarian in the Sky Bullshit sees so fit. And what bullshit is that, living on some purple couch. It’s ain’t my own terms unless I want to be living on that purple couch. Having to make the best of a shit sandwich gives me terms like whether or not I sleep when I’m in my cage. What the fuck else is there to do? Dammit. I’ve gotten too much in my head. Damn monkeys. These fucks’ bullshit pool. I’ve seen them use it fewer times than I have balls, but they still maintain the fucker. Used to be a nice big fence around the pool so that small children couldn’t what and drown, but somewhere in the remodeling they thought it was a bit too sore on the eyes. I guess it didn’t look enough like Better Homes and Gardens that it had to go. Heh, I can be a small child. Carpe fucking diem. Do I have any last thoughts worth expressing? Fuck you, one last time, and a second fuck you to the road. The kids were good, but they ain’t coming back. On to bigger and better things, those cunts, and why not? Ah, it’s getting too sentimental in here. I always wanted to go to the beach.

“Hi Mom, I Think I’m Jewish Now” Written by Samuel Zylstra

oon enough, brand new freshmen—the class of 2023—will be roaming around campus, enjoying the abundant social possibilities this university has to offer. They will (unfortunately) feel inclined to visit a frat party or two, and so for them, I present a cautionary tale about events that occurred at a frat party long ago. Some Friday night early on in my first year, I wandered with a rag-tag group of borderline alcoholics looking for a way to validate their drinking habits at the local frats. “Listen, champ,” insisted the de-facto leader Robby in a solemn tone of voice, “you need to know the in’s and out’s of these joints. First and foremost, you gotta constantly lie to everyone you meet at these places. Never tell them a shred of the truth.” He held true to this policy, insisting that he was rushing, and I was a transfer student from Florida State University. The latter lie seemed fairly unnecessary since a blanket lie about our group rushing could have easily covered both of us for a simple Welcome Week event. By this point, most of us had amassed enough alcohol to not only turn our stumble into a dangerous balancing act but to also work up a full bladder as well. Upon some heavy deliberation, we decided that we would line up to pee in order of height—shortest last—and unfortunately, I lost by an inch.

With a bladder dangerously close to bursting, I waited as patiently as I possibly could, shaking hands with every guy I made eye contact with until finally, it was my turn to piss. The line grew smaller and smaller until I

“There was, however, a small kink in that plan—my zipper was stuck. A mere inconvenience, no doubt, but I simply did not have the agency to process this rationally.” was finally up to bat and eyed my proverbial pissing tree. Admittedly, the facilities were not optimal. In fact, they were not even facilities. Staring down a pile of soggy cardboard beer cases, I blindly assumed it was the frat’s halfassed attempt at composting. I approached precariously, checked my surroundings, and began to unzip. Approximately ten seconds later, my bladder was empty, and I prepared to pack up my business. There was, however, a small kink in that plan—my zipper was stuck. A mere inconvenience, no doubt, but I simply did not have the agency to process this rationally. I began to panic–what if my pants wouldn’t zip up? After all, I only had so much time before the people behind me got annoyed and starting shouting unintelligible phrases meant to insult

my brittle ego. I could try pulling my shirt down over my crotch–but I would run the risk of my hot-dog-patterned boxers and the tip of my penis poking out, as my shirt was far too short to disguise the underdeveloped size of my member. I could take my shirt off and wrap it around my waist if it were not for debilitating body image issues. “Fuck it,” I thought to myself, “one more try.” I pulled on the zipper, and voila! It moved! For a moment, I was ecstatic. I felt like proclaiming from the hilltops that I had narrowly avoided a lifetime of complete and utter shame—my parents disowning me, my friends shunning me, my cat committing suicide out of shame—until I realized my mistake. The zipper had indeed moved, but only by a little. It had been… obstructed by something. A numbed pain flooded into my body as I willed myself to look down, inching my head down as a crowd of partygoers threatened to pee themselves, on the ground, on me. I worked up substantial courage and looked at the gruesome scene. There, atop a pile of Coors Light boxes, laid my mangled foreskin. Tears flooded out of my eyes. I began shaking as I reached for my phone and dialed the only person I could trust in an emergency. “Hi Mom,” I sobbed, “I think I’m Jewish now.”

Art by Brianna Kucharski

Winter 2019

Retreat at the Arboretum for Engineering Students Welcoming all Michigan Engineering Students, Looking for a spiritual getaway that could help you grow as a more wholesome engineer (and maybe cure that chronic anal retentiveness)? Or just an experience that would set you apart from other applicants in that coveted Google interview? Then come spend your spring break with EnginOff, a retreat program loosely associated with the College of Engineering, partly funded by the Lansing Catholic Diocese1, and designed fully by the producers of Naked and Afraid. For March 2nd through March 11th, we rented the entirety of the bountiful 200-acre Bird HillsBarton Nature Area for engineering students to live in and feed off of for a whole week. Students will be required to participate in the retreat WITHOUT ANY clothes, WITHOUT ANY personal belongings, and certainly WITHOUT ANY form of modern technology. Our rationale is simple. The Ten Commandments were carved on a stone tablet, not a Samsung Galaxy Tab. The average Biblical lifespan was 930 years before Wisconsin invented LaCroix. And had Eve not eaten from the tree of trivial knowledge, our ears would have been cradled by the sounds of nature instead of RAPED by the likes of Mo Bamba. By POLLUTING our bodies, both outside and inside, with technological waste, we continued to FALL from God’s good graces. By returning to the pure image we were created in, naked and bathed in the light of blissful ignorance, we hope to redraw that line. To commit to this mission, we will not hesitate to punish those who break the rules. Students found using, speaking about, or even thinking about objects forbidden in the retreat will be labelled as SPAWNS OF SATAN and as punishment for their lust will be FLOGGED as much as legally permitted by the courts of Washtenaw and as recommended by the Holy Word of God. Although students will be expected to test their limits, a one-day program will be provided

“But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you.” Job 12:7-10 “And Jesus said to them, “Come away by yourselves to a lonely place, and rest a while.” Mark 6:31

to teach students skills needed to survive the Michigan wilderness. At the core of this program is a ceremonial baptism in the Huron River when river flow is at a peak 270 cubic meters per second—strong enough to purge students of temptation. The other half of the day will be dedicated to prayer, sermons, and hot yoga. Students who, at the end of the day, can prove him or herself able to effectively invoke the Holy Spirit for help will be rewarded with his/her first communion by the Archdeacon himself, who as a judge will be watching students from the sidelines. Engin-Off offers two types of retreats. Our Self-Guided Retreat is our most popular offering. For this retreat, we simply provide transportation to drop the students off at the nature area, leave them there to survive the elements2, and then pick them up a week later. With our Hosted Retreats, we add a little twist to the basic package: Shakespearean plays. Following tradition, we continue to work together with the great team behind Shakespeare in the Arb to bring arts and culture to the wilderness. This year, we invite students to physically experience the lustful passions of Romeo and Juliet using the rugged plains around them as a backdrop.

Some of the technical skills we’ve heard our students gain from this retreat include hunting, fire-building, improved immunity, and fighting skills. As for soft skills and outcomes, our students have reported a stronger appreciation for nature, seeing God, and greater empathy for LSA students. Other bonus skills gained by our super students include assassination, virginity loss, and UX insight. Our mission is to provide opportunities for engineering students to refresh, reflect, and reconnect with the real world. For reservations and more information, click here.

1 Although the diocese is currently under investigation for laundering profits made from an alleged pornography business run from the confession booths in three of its parish churches, investigators have not been able to provide burden of proof that any of the funds donated to Engin-Off are in any way related to these scandals.

2 Medical kits will be available for purchase after the retreat is over. Currently, we only accept PayPal.

PHIL 437: History of Metaphysics Section: 001 Term: Fall 2019 Subject: Philosophy (PHIL) Department: LSA Philosophy

Description David Hume argues that causality is merely a cognitive joining of otherwise unrelated events. He provides an example of billiards balls: when I strike a cue ball which hits the 8-ball and proceeds to roll into the left-corner pocket, I cannot say that this caused my bookie Fernando to break my knee caps. I can only establish that I did not have the necessary money to pay for my wager, and then I received an ass-whooping bad enough that I swore several times to sweet baby Jesus* that I didn’t think my tibia was supposed to bend like that. Again, did this cause my wife to leave me? No. We can only point to what has happened (me gambling away our nest egg, showing up beaten and drunk to our daughter’s wedding, taking bets during the ceremony of how long it’ll take for my petite dumpling’s marriage to fail, and denying all of it at couple’s therapy later that week) and then to what has happened next (me chain-smoking outside a Motel 6). Some attempt to use probabilistic reasoning, like pointing to the fact my daughter has had a “poor and frequently absent” father figure in order to ground that she will be mired in “an unmistakable lack of trust which only becomes apparent during year 2 and unbearable by year 3” so that there’s “not a chance in hell her husband realizes this less than a year in,” but ultimately such means are not absolute. Although we may live in a deterministic universe, we are still well within the system, and, as such, cannot have complete information which would be necessary to render such claims as knowledge. In this case, I did not account for the fact that my sugar pea is allergic to men with a temper and that my former son-in-law could only hide his for the time they were dating plus two months. On the other hand, Kant believes we can justify claims of causality, relying on indexing perceptions over time. For example, as I write these lecture notes on the plane home from visiting the home in which I put my bat of a mother since I’m no longer welcome with my ex-wife, daughter, and newborn grandchildren, I can index my perceptions about the angry flight attendant trying to get me to turn off and stow my laptop: My mind’s eye glosses from top to bottom, so at t=0, I perceive unruly brown hair. At t=1, I perceive a wrinkly black blazer with a lipstick stain on the lapel. At t=2, I see the attendant unconsciously adjust his wedding ring. At t=3, I see that the bottom of his shirt pokes out through his unzipped fly. However, this is merely a subjective way to represent this attendant; the man beside me not-so-subtly trying to masturbate could just as easily have perceived the lipstick stain, the wedding ring, the fly, then the hair; or the fly, the ring, then the hair; the ring, the hair, then the fly and so on. Thus, there can be nothing which directly corresponds to our apperception. However, there are instances of objective indexing. Consider the event as described by the following: At t=0, the flight attendant is at the front of the plane, near the cockpit. At t=1, he walks briskly past my seat in the middle of the plane. At t=2, he knocks on the bathroom door in the rear, and at t=3, it opens and he enters. It would be impossible for even the intercontinental dirtbag sitting next to me to index in successive time these same events differently. Since there is a necessary progression of events, there must be something which mediates them through our understanding. This faculty of our understanding is what Kant views as causality. *Whether baby Jesus exists, and if he does, if he is indeed sweet, will be the focus of the subsequent course in this sequence, PHIL 438.

SOME PARTS OF THIS ISSUE WERE BROUGHT TO YOU BY...

Winter 2019

Where should I eat? by Max Lee

The Power Lines Gave Me Autism (Story of a First Time With Marijuana)

Written by Jeremy Ritz, illustration by Shannon Zheng

Alright, where did it all start? was sitting in my friend’s garage and my friend just started smoking weed a few months ago and he was in love with it. He was talking my ear off about it, telling me that he wanted to smoke me out, bad. He was really riding marijuana’s dick. I eventually gave in and we decided to head somewhere to smoke. We decided to walk to the nearest Denny’s since my friend’s parents were home. On the way, my friend would not shut the fuck up about weed. He was like a snake oil salesman with a brain aneurysm. It would not have been so bad if he wasn’t repeating himself over and over again. Was he high? Oh, on the moon. He was high as fuck by the time we got to Denny’s. By the time we got to Denny’s I was having second thoughts about trying weed. My friend was being so annoying. When we sat down at a table, I told him that I didn’t want to go through with it. He guilted me super hard about it and called me a big pussy. He stopped talking to me and we sat in silence as we waited for our food. While we waited, a very large family of wholesome-looking white people who looked like they had just walked out of a Hallmark movie sat behind us. Looking at them made me not want to get high anymore. Here was this nice family that looked like they were there to celebrate and here I was about to taint that by getting stoned. I could not bear the thought. But then they started talking. I listened to them since my friend wasn’t speaking to me while I ate. First they talked about the weather, family, you know, normal shit. But then the conversation switched to how autism was becoming more prevalent. They began talking about vaccines, of course, but then one of them had a revelation. The power lines were giving children autism. My mind was destroyed and my soul was forever tainted. I thought the vaccine talk was dumb. But this… Do you need a minute? No, but thank you. I felt my I.Q. begin to fall.

I put down my quesadilla and I looked at my friend. He told me earlier that he had gummies on him and I promptly told him to give me all that he had. His eyes lit up and he gave me a handful. I scarfed them down like the fatass that I am. We then went behind the Denny’s and smoked up. I was so high, I felt like my arms became gorilla arms, like my existence became a dumpster full of diapers as I faded from this reality into another. I think I became an alien and my home became Pluto and I was drifting in her moist, frozen goo. To this day, I still think back to that time because I can no longer bear to think about the future.

Winter 2019

HALLOWEENHALLOWEEN HORROR. StoryHORROR by Nolan Kerr from St Paul Story by Nolan St Paul Minnesota, Art by Isabel A. Hedin-Urrutia Minnesota , ArtKerr byfrom Isabel A. Hedin-Urrutia

alloweenonona aWednesday Wednesdayisis never never aa good alcaholic Halloween good coincidence coincidencefor forananamateur amateur with an 8a.m. nextthe day. alcoholic with an 8thea.m. next day.

At 8 p.m., I threw on my monkey costume and hopped on the lightrail to Nick’s apartment. We each downed 4 shots in 15 minutes and then made our way to the party about a mile away. I’m not really sure what Nick’s costume was. When I asked him, he responded, “Either Billy Ray Cyrus or a country version of Slash.” While walking, we passed nuns, Bob Rosses, and slutty cats left and right. When we got to the party, I grabbed a cup of jungle juice and started a game of beer pong because I’m a stereotypical college student. At this point in my life, it had been about 14 months since I last smoked weed, but when a few people made a move for the balcony, I had a pretty good idea for what they were going to do. I thought, “What could go wrong?” as I did another shot and followed them out onto the balcony. I only took a hit or two off a blunt before it ran out, then went back inside.

Now this is where my memory starts to get spotty. The only evidence I have of what happened after that is a video I took during my walk. Nick and I put our arms inside of our sleeves and started walking with high knees, claiming that we were bicycles.

1414

I came to at one point during our walk home. The first thing I saw was a sign for Domino’s Pizza. I looked at Nick and said, “That’s what’s happening next.” I blacked out again, but he must have agreed because I came to again inside of Domino’s.

I was doing fine… then another customer came in the door and… the way the wind hit me was just not good. I calmly turned to Nick, said “I’ll be right back,” and stepped outside for some air. My solution was placing my order with the app instead of talking to the cashier. A chicken alfredo pasta and a medium pizza with pineapple, mushrooms, black olives, and bacon.

I walked over to the trash can. Now, I didn’t consciously make this decision; it was more of an instinct… as was taking off my glasses so they didn’t fall into the trash can when I vomited into it.

So, there I was, almost dead at 2:45 a.m., passed out on the sidewalk in front of Domino’s… dressed as a monkey. It took some convincing on Nick’s part, but I eventually stood up and we walked back to his apartment. As I was laying down, I realized something was missing.

Spring 2019

Winter 2019

Bell Tower Bathroom Review Written by Sam Zylstra

t’s a beautiful Tuesday afternoon: the sun is shining, the legions of birds have returned to their perches on campus, my direct deposit just hit. But I need to take a shit. Really fucking bad. This really wouldn’t be an issue if it weren’t for my no-good geographic status: stranded in the Bell Tower. One might even say I was effectively trapped. It’s a shame too, because the bell tower really is a wonderful building. It’s very tall (as towers are) and has a bell (as bell towers tend to have). But as wonderful as

“At this point, the shit is getting dangerously close to making a French exit.” the tower is, I am unsure if it has a bathroom in it. I could go to the MLB and shit, but the layout of that building confuses me sometimes and I need to take a shit NOW. So I scour the premises for any sign of a bathroom. I plead with passersby for even a clue as to its location, but they look at me like I’m a leper asking for a

Art by Lauren Kuzee back rub—entirely disgusting and unfortunate. They hold their bags a little tighter and pick up the pace, leaving me crumpled in a heap on the floor. At this point, the shit is getting dangerously close to making a French exit, but as my desperation reaches its peak, a man in white robes with a long, silver beard approaches me. “Try the sixth floor,” he whispers gently in my ear before disappearing into the stairway. Without a hint of hesitation, I bound up the stairs three steps at a time, rising flight after flight until finally, I have reached the sixth floor. I crawl to my final destination and open the door with the last ounce of strength I have. Upon entering, I notice the room is in a state of extensive disrepair—the floor is grimy and slippery, there are exposed wires in the corner of the room, and somehow I can hear the wind howling. But one detail catches my eye: a small window in the corner of the room, right by the toilet. Intrigued, I take a seat on the loo. And miracle of miracles, I can see out of the window, right down to the sidewalk where a horde of unsuspecting students walk to their

next destination. I lift my hand in front of my face and squish their tiny bodies with my fingers. I laugh, because I am a god now, my power imbued by the man in white robes and a long silver beard. I am squishing the tiny insignificant bodies of unsuspecting students with my fingers as I squeeze a big ol’ fucking log out of my asshole. And with that same hand, I wipe my ass. Suddenly, my joyous people-squishing is interrupted by a loud knock. Fuck, I think. I’m like a deer in headlights, caught in the ultimate state of vulnerability. I can feel my power, my ego, draining from me. “Just a second,” I shout, my voice cracking. I quickly finish up my business, wash my hands, and open the door. A man with a patchy bald dome stands at the door, his hands jittering like he’s a recovering alcoholic at an increasingly dull Thanksgiving dinner. A stream of piss trickles down his trouser leg as he stares me down, his mouth struggling to form words. Alas, he prevails, to some degree. “What took you so fucking long?” he asks, exhaustion framing every one of his syllables. I pause, considering what I can say to appease him. “Sorry,” I mumble while looking at my feet, “I just haven’t been eating a lot of fiber recently.”

The Gargoyle Investigates: Rising Stars

onald Glover’s This is America was recently awarded a Grammy, making it one of the most important songs of the year. There is no question that at the Grammys, celebrity musicians receive all of the attention, a disheartening fact given the countless lesser-known but equally talented artists trying to share their music with the world. Here at the Gargoyle, we give everyone the benefit of the doubt, which is why we have decided to publish an in-depth look at some of the most promising artists of this day and age. Perhaps one of these musicians will one day win the Grammy? Let’s start by heading south of the Mason-Dixon and checking out an artist who puts the likes of golden country greats like Conway Twitty and Merle Haggard to shame. Enter Jimmy Jackson. Like all successful country artists, Jimmy served a brief stint in federal prison after beating his neighbor’s horse with a spatula in a fit of rage during a psychotic break brought on by watching Mr. Ed reruns. Jimmy skyrocketed to fame in his native Texarkana with his hit single You’re Only My 2nd Cousin, And That Makes Our Love Okay. This modern take on a timeless Alabama tune immediately topped local charts and has seen significant radio coverage across the country, from good ol’ Knoxville all the way to Galveston. It’s no surprise given the fascinating use of syncopated rhythms and dissonant chords. In fact, the most famous lines were taken directly from a skinhead biker brawl across the street from the recording studio! Talk about authenticity! Detractors say Jimmy will never hit the mainstream because he has a swastika tattooed on his forehead and openly advocates for secession. As far as we at the Gargoyle are concerned, Jimmy Jackson has already carved himself a spot into the great Mount Rushmore of country legends. Now, let’s investigate the Midwestern R&B scene with M.C. McGriddles’ magnum opus love song: Girl, I’ll Have Some Fries With That Burger. Before you listen to M.C. McGriddle, you have to understand some history about the man himself. M.C. McGriddle, one-time Chicago junkie turned type two diabetic, realized his former druggie lifestyle was unhealthy while being urinated on by a homeless man. In a mere three weeks, M.C. McGriddle performed the impossible, completely supplanting his drug addiction with a constant influx of Big Macs, McRibs, and steak fries. M.C. McGriddle, who clocks in at just over 600 pounds when fully engorged, is the smoothest singer east of the Mississippi. Where M.C. McGriddle really shines above the mainstream R&B crowd is his sheer relatability. While R. Kelly and Usher sing about sex and money, M.C. McGriddle sings about the real issues, bringing to attention those of us who just can’t go half an hour without eating a Snickers. But don’t take our word for it. M.C. McGriddles’ latest smash hit, Imma Do You Right Girl And Get You Some Extra Dip, has taken over the streets of Chicago. All this in spite of the fact that McGriddle is currently on house arrest for making death threats to the local Burger King. Here at the Gargoyle, we think M.C. McGriddle is someone that we can all relate to. Finally and perhaps most importantly, we did some digging in and around Seattle and turned up a group which will really bring out that teenage angst. You haven’t quite experienced grunge until you’ve been to one of the Allen twins’ intense underground concerts for yourself. Originally headed by identical twins Karl and Kyle on drums and electric respectively, the duo produced hit after hit with songs like Shut Up And Give Me The Adderall, The Voices In My Head Have Tourettes, and Codeine. Unfortunately, the original lineup ended all too early during a live performance of More Dope Or Piss Up A Rope, during which Karl began shooting up heroin on stage, and Kyle blew his brains out with a 12 gauge. Karl was later placed on suicide watch but, determined to continue the band, recruited bassist Darryl Rick and guitarist James Tyler. They too tragically overdosed on Fentanyl-laced Flintstones vitamins and Elmer’s glue before hitting the stage for the first time. It remains to be seen if Karl will ever be able to recreate his early sound, but at the Gargoyle, we understand raw talent and have faith that Karl will be returning to the big stage very soon.

Winter 2019

THE LABIA LOUNGER languish in the lips of love

Have you ever been right in front of a vagina and thought, “Hey, I’d like to sit right in between those meaty folds?” Well, now’s your chance, Jamie Jamieson! You can do exactly that on our brand new line of furniture shaped exactly in the likeness of your favorite vaginas throughout history. Yours? We can do it! Your grandma’s? Seems a bit weird, but we don’t judge, so why not? The legs are available in hardwoods including rosewood, teak and walnut, using pegged tenon joinery. Extra glossy, buffed by hand, and finished with olive oil. The exterior is matted velvet with a ribbed interior upholstery. Notice the exquisite finishing and the star-shaped bronze tuftedbutton. We recommend maintaining its shine by rubbing it frequently. The more you do, the easier it is to find. Run down to your latest Bed, Bath, and Far Beyond, open your wallets, and unload some dough on our very own children: the chairs. Just don’t buy from IKEA. We know that you already can’t identify the parts, and we think that having to assemble your chair yourself would be terribly painful to both your mind and body. Spring 2019

The Likhan Saga: An Interactive Obituary W

e are immensely proud at the excitement that our teaser for this piece has generated in the last few months. We have been getting non-stop emails from odd domains even beyond the realm of the yahoo’s and the bellsouth’s making conjectures about the identity of our mystery letter-to-the-editor-writer known only as Likhan Sobscraip. While we hate to temper the enthusiasm of our readers, we must bring to your attention that the primary contact in this correspondence, our own Michael Rosenberg, has gone missing. The final email in this chain contains the last known image of Michael before his disappearance. Due to the content of this email, it is assumed that he is no longer with us. We strongly considered not following up on this piece out of respect for the presumably deceased, but our beloved subscribers were simply too stoked on this piece to not go through with it. Furthermore, it would almost be disrespectful not to publish Michael’s opus mortem. So, in the spirit of transparency and dedication to our readership, we now share the email chain, complete with multimedia attachments, that led to Michael’s premature departure from this ass world. Enjoy, but with care. From: likhan sobscraip <***@yahoo.com> Date: Oct 27, 2018 at 2:54 AM Subject: Letter to editor of The Gargoyle To: Gargmail <***@umich.edu>

From: Michael Rosenberg <***@umich.edu> Date: October 31, 2018 at 8:43 PM Subject: Re: Letter to editor of The Gargoyle To: likhan sobscraip <***@yahoo.com>

From: likhan sobscraip <***@yahoo.com> Date: November 1, 2018 at 1:58 AM Subject: Re: Letter to editor of The Gargoyle To: Michael Rosenberg <***@umich.edu>

Sincerely Mr. Gargmail,

Sincerely Likhan,

I am very excited and surprised when discovering your publication is a feature on the humorous list to my local website. Not often we can read American magazines here. I found the article laughter and delightful and many of them even gave me a lot of laughs. I was so excite to find place of your magazine with a letter to editor. I thought “If I send a letter to the editor, and they print it out, I’m very famous and even in my village will be celebrate.” Will write and have a humble little of me; I told everyone with my friends and he told me that it was quite good if I said it myself. So here’s a joke:

Thank you for your good message. I are happy because you have been happy with us! We love to joke people laugh. I’m very happy.

you still have not answer my question! will you print me!?? I start to think you not real at all…

“knock Knock,” “who have?” “Pablo.” “Who’s Pablo?” “Pablo, can you go?”

Thank you for your word. We are pleased to introduce you to our magazine. We talk to you for your own people.

Two firefighters were walking down the street and one person said to the other, “Your shoelace” to look at. But it was a fire.

I was glad that you have sent us some jokes but, they are uncomfortable to understand me. What is the reason to go to “Pablo”? And when the firefighter looked the shell is burning? Your speeches feel like I do not understand, but I want to improve what you mean. Can you send voice recording message different to different, so that I understand them? Maybe we share files night time ;)

Greetings, Aamichael Luntzlara Амайкл 란투 라라

[Attachment: സമ്മാനം.m4a]

https://tinyurl.com/yywgtawp

From: Michael Rosenberg <***@umich.edu> Date: November 2, 2018 at 3:43 AM Subject: Re: Letter to editor of The Gargoyle To: likhan sobscraip <***@yahoo.com> Adress: The Gargoyle 420 Maynard St. Ann Arbor, MI 48104 United States [Attachment: замболя.mp3]

I hope you like my jokes and they may be for you and your readers to laugh a lot. Greetings, Likhan Sobscraip ชপছж‫کرتشم נַא‬ഷ്പ്പെ購読

https://tinyurl.com/y46a5jw5

[Attachment: Likhan - The My Movei.mp4]

From: likhan sobscraip <***@yahoo.com> Date: November 14, 2018 at 4:08 AM Subject: Re: Letter to editor of The Gargoyle To: Michael Rosenberg <***@umich.edu> Thank for your message. A redbulls have been send, it should arrive on Thurdsay, and here is UPS tracking number *** I get the sugarfree kind, is this correct? I very much appreciate what you have done for me, and attatch a song I sing for you... haha! You have been Rickroiled! That is what you get “as consequence” for making fun of my mother. Good morning, Likhan

https://tinyurl.com/yxgn7pax

From: likhan sobscraip <***@yahoo.com> Date: November 18, 2018 at 11:48 AM Subject: Re: Letter to editor of The Gargoyle To: Michael Rosenberg <***@umich.edu> =( [Attachment gila_dan_sedih.mov]

[Attachment: sindidzatayamtima.mp3]

https://tinyurl.com/yy9l2w6a

From: likhan sobscraip <***@yahoo.com> Date: March 3, 2019 at 1:35 AM Subject: Re: Letter to editor of The Gargoyle To: Michael Rosenberg <***@umich.edu>

https://tinyurl.com/y43q95x2

I am also make short film. But this is more like snuff film—here is picture more to come

From: likhan sobscraip <***@yahoo.com> Date: November 14, 2018 at 10:47 PM Subject: Re: Letter to editor of The Gargoyle To: Michael Rosenberg <***@umich.edu> POST SCRIPTUS: when you are receive the beverage, please confirm receipt by send photo of evidence you enjoying Red Bull LS

From: Michael Rosenberg <***@umich.edu> Date: November 17, 2018 at 11:20 PM Subject: Re: Letter to editor of The Gargoyle To: likhan sobscraip <***@yahoo.com> Cursed Likhan, Not good friends anymore. You give poison to me and for this are revenge. I make video explain soon. Here is image [Attachment: upayforthis.png]

[Attachment: snuff.jpeg]

https://tinyurl.com/y56532n5 From: likhan sobscraip <***@yahoo.com> Date: February 8, 2019 at 1:02 AM Subject: Re: Letter to editor of The Gargoyle To: Michael Rosenberg <***@umich.edu> Have you any news on video? I have been eagerly await almost nāl month... I hope you are not so angry at me! Yours, -Likhan From: Michael Rosenberg <***@umich.edu> Date: February 12, 2019 at 10:48 PM Subject: Re: Letter to editor of The Gargoyle To: likhan sobscraip <***@yahoo.com> Inpatient Likhan, I am happy to say have finished short film about angry at you. You did hurt me for not once and I over this don’t have forgetfulness. Do not enjoy, Michael

Winter 2019

https://tinyurl.com/y6rktshz If you have any information as to the whereabouts of Michael’s remains, or would like to share art and memes regarding his disappearance, please email gargreaders@umich.edu and we may publish it in the next issue or take it to the cops. Wherever he may end up, we will meet Michael again. Someday.

Philosophy by Jenny Ghose, Editor-In-Chief

o our readers who are only opening the Gargoyle because one of our staff members shouted crude and interesting things at you during Festifall or Northfest: this is both a hello and a goodbye from me. The Philosophy from the Editor-in-Chief is usually published during the first issue of the fall semester, but I missed my own deadline and also my own friendsand-family deadline extension, so we bundled it in with my senior farewell. Though this is both untraditional and sloppy, it’s fitting for the Gargoyle’s brand, which bucks things like tradition and forethought. I joined the Gargoyle during my freshman year because I was too intimidated by the Every Three Weekly’s application process. I stayed because I had nothing better to do on Fridays at 6 pm1. Then I promptly broke my leg, disappeared for the following semester without telling anyone, stumbled into a content editorship when I could walk again, and

1 We changed the meetings to Tuesdays upon finally giving in to the fact that most people have better things to do on a Friday night than trying to brainstorm new, innovative ways of talking about the characteristics of a penis. As a failing publication with dwindling staff numbers, we can’t afford to exclude people who happen to be more socially successful than the members of the executive board are.

somehow became Editor-inChief while having written only a single piece for the magazine up to that point. You can be or do anything at our humble little magazine, if you really want to. You just have to be able to walk, apparently. I’ve thought a lot about the Gargoyle’s place at the University of Michigan, and apart from our low standards for staff members (i.e. an active heartbeat, though we haven’t checked up on some of our mailin submitters in a while), what has always attracted me to this publication above the rest is that we’re really invested in making people laugh. We’re not profitable, so we have no one to please but ourselves and our readers. Our staff tries to publish everyone who wants to submit a piece, and through this process, we’ve discovered a diversity of absurd things that are funny to different people. I’m convinced that you can’t get that anywhere else on campus and, for me, that certainly makes up for everything else we don’t have. The Gargoyle hasn’t always been a magazine that most students on campus have never heard of. Our acclaim rises and falls throughout the years, usually peaking at the times when we’re expelled from campus for publishing an especially unsavory piece. At the moment, it seems like we’re in a downswing, but things are looking up; you’re reading this,

aren’t you? A host of greats have written for us before, namely Arthur Miller, Larry Brilliant, and one of the founders of LaChoy. We actually weren’t able to find the last one’s name, but that’s what he did. I’m sure that a couple of the staff members on the next page will soon be added to this list of remarkable people. Who knows, maybe one of them will make an app. That would be pretty cool. Our staff is made up of exceptionally funny and dedicated people who let us publish their work without any presumption that it will be to their benefit. And despite the inherent difficulties of college and that the Garg can only offer an office with a secondstory view of a parking lot, I have never left a meeting without a smile. It’s been a humbling experience to lead such a brilliant group for the past two years, and it will certainly be the most memorable part about my time at U of M. Whether this is your first time picking up a Garg or you decided to skim this issue while on your walk to a recycling bin, the Gargoyle welcomes everyone through its doors. We hope we got at least a chuckle out of you.

Bye Bitches a.k.a. Senior Farewells H

i, I’m Connor. Funny how we only say hello right before we have to part ways. Well, for the few readers I did have, thank you. It was nice to have some amorphous blob of a readership that i could simultaneously hold as at least 4 in number to inflate my ego and at most 2 to assuage my anxiety about publishing some seriously whack shit. Thanks for being an ear in a busy world. Sometimes I think that being heard is all that I can ask for, and other times I’m like damn I’m a white dude* in, like, any time in history before the Great Cleansing of 2033. I’m curious if Garg meetings were held on a different day to exclude me from meetings, partially because I didn’t come thru on ad buys, you know third place GlenGarry GlenRoss type shit, but the timetable doesn’t even work out on that one. But here I am again, a hair before the deadline cranking out content like its my meat to save the Garg once again1. I’m a fucking champ. Oops, autocorrect doesn’t correct a misspelling if the miscarriage was also a word. That should say chump. Of all the gin joints in all the world, I had the misfortune of following Michael Rosenberg into this one. Blame him. Peace, and death can’t stop this party, Connor Davis

1 issue4

As of two weeks past the deadline, Connor did not submit the content and the Garg couldn’t publish

To whom’s concern was unexpressed,

lthough I leave you here, upon the publishing of this issue which eschews all forms of enumeration, itemization, and sequential description, I implore you to consider my absence one merely of physicality. For in my absence you will still skip down your metaphorical stairs, stare over your metaphorical banister, and watch the metaphorical mailman deliver my living thoughts from distances untold into your inbox. And it is through this medium that I will haunt your filthy bureau, my kindred spirits, not with ill intent but with adoration and a thankfulness for being imperceptible to all but those once familiar with my corporeal presence. Imperceptible, because a geist must naturally fade as the memory of him does. Thankful, because, whether it was deontologically ordained or circumstantially determined, my time here is run out. And though I receive this blow with no more than a pained grimace and an overwrought gag, I can choose further to ascribe it with the meaning that we are meant to grow apart. This in both senses: to allow ourselves to become more distant from one another, and to grow separately and individually. What my practiced countenance has successfully failed to betray I make clear for you now: for any modicum of help, any dreary droplet of assurance you may have derived from my tenure at the Gargoyle, you, yes you, dear singular contributor, have repaid it to me ten-fold in the friendship, wit, and openness of heart that you have been so kind to share with this cynical arbitrator of the art of the arbitrary. Thus, I do not exaggerate when I affirm that this publication shall be bitterly missed, and dutifully watched by me, your assistant something-or-other, Michael

n my 4 years as a Gargling, 2 years as Layout Dictator, and short stint as interim Art Director, I haven’t officially contributed writing other than adding and editing others’ titles and image descriptions to fill space on pages. So, here I am in bed at 2 in the morning voice dictating this on my phone. To spite Michael’s idea to have a list-free issue because he says they’re a crutch, I decided to have my farewell be a list. However, after trying to write this four times, it seems to be the case that I can’t walk even with crutches. But in my sleepy delusion, I’m going to now dictate a list of reasons why you should join the Gargoyle based on my experience. Reasons You Should Join the Gargoyle: 1. There is no real application process. If you persistently show up they will accept you. 2. To those who don’t actually know the Gargoyle well, it will give you street cred or add to some sort of alternative indie agenda/look that you’re trying to go for. 3. You will have a second more in-depth sex education experience than you would have never otherwise had. 4. It is the perfect way to feel like you are being productive when you are actually procrastinating on your school work. 5. It looks good on a resume. Until your employer Googles us, finds us on issuu.com or our fantastic website (gargmag.com), then realizes that they don’t actually want to hire us because we publish things like phallic religious objects that make our professors cry (true story). 6. If you stay long enough, you may somehow find yourself in a leadership position (again, great for your resume) without deserving it. You get to feel important and boss people around. 7. You don’t actually have to be funny to join. With extended exposure, other people’s talent, creativity, and humorous capacity will rub off on you through diffusion. So if you aren’t funny and want to learn a thing or two, join the official humour magazine of The University of Michigan, the secondoldest publication on campus.

Love you, Miss you, I’ll never leave you, Call me with Questions and Concerns, Fiona

n my 3 years at the University of Michigan, I have been humbled to work with such creative, talented, and devoted people at the Gargoyle. It was a treat to provide monstrosities such as S&M fetuses, Hutus advertising Tutsi rolls, numerous instances of furries, and so on. After I leave U of M and pursue other endeavors (namely long-form graphic narratives), I hope The Gargoyle will continue as I know it: a little-holds barred cornucopia of content. Current and Future Garglings, don’t let either the oversensitive Left or the pearl-clutching Right tarnish this magazine’s carefree spirit. Let us shred the ugly sphincter of censorship with our imaginations and artistic media. Duncan Reitz

Winter 2019