Volume 106 Number 2 by Gargoyle Humor Magazine

Table of Contents 1. They’re Everywhere

Volume CVI, Number 2 Winter 2014 Nico Pigg . . . . . . . . . . Friendly Neighborhood Neighbor

Daphine Zhao . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Feeds Buzzed Andrew Keating. . . . . . . Snobby Hobby Lobby Lobbyist

Phil Wachowiak . . . . . . . . . . . . Whale Gynecologist Neal Jackson . . . . . . . . . Has a Wife and Two Tamagotchi Mea Ansorge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Janitor at an Online College

Alex Boscolo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hard Post Soft Grunge Courtney Carroll . . . . . . . . . . . Vampire Dentist

2. This Page 3. That Page 4. God-Damn Hipsters 5. Obvious Jokes 6. Really, Dad? 7. Animals Are Dumb 8. Save Us All 9. We Help You Out 10. Things That Should Exist 11. It’s That Easy

Evan Chavis . . . . . . . . . . . Poor Man’s Rich Man

12. The First Half

Jake Dwyer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mild Mannered Goat

14. The First Half, Part 2

Sydney Glide . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bar Mitzvah Clown

16. Definitely Not Jello

Luke Collard . . . . . . . . . . . Liked Furbies Before It Was Cool

13. The Second Half

Mike Flynn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . GSI at School of Hard Knocks

15. The Second Half, Part 2

Nikki Horowitz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Plumber to the Stars Ellen James . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jurassic Turkey

Jeremy Kruman. . . . . . . . . Bold Sexual Request on 1st Date Ben Leigh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Feast Infection

J.J. Lundy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Takes Dad Poops

17. Don’t Let The Bedbugs Bite 18. Thanks For Your Service 19. Farewell 20. I Am The Captain Now

James Mackin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stacy’s Dad

21. Strikes When You Don’t Expect

Chelsea Perry . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cried During Grown-Ups 2

23. Hopeless

Caleb Nusbaum . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mini-Cooper Transformer

22. The Wrong Choice

Zoe Schwartz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anaconda’s True Desire

24. The End

Chris Seeman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Boogie Evenings

Max Shooster . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Moses of the Midwest Direct all complaints, comments, submissions, and proclamations to

The Gargoyle 420 Maynard Ann Arbor, MI 48104

gargmail@umich.edu Visit us at: www.gargmag.com

BONE-CRUSHER’S BREWERY by J.J. LUNDY

ey everyone, it’s Clyde. Ya know, the hog-ridin’, rough-housin’, hell-raisin’ buffoon who got kicked out of Wichita for getting a little too cozy with the mayor’s daughter. You might be askin’ yourself “Clyde, how the hell did you avoid gettin’ thrown in the pokey after you rode your Harley piss-drunk through the Kansas City Zoo?” Well, that’s a whole ‘nother story. Today I’m here to give you a piece of advice: never step foot into Bone-Crusher’s Brewing Company without expectin’ some real trouble. So there I was just ridin’ down US Route 40 after crossin’ the Missouri River into good ole’ Boonsville. Pretty soon, out the corner of my eye, my good bud Rusty rides up and asks me if I wanted to take a detour down Highway 70 to grab a cold one. I obliged.

Next thing I know, we’re pullin’ into a dusty ole’ parkin’ lot littered with Harleys. A strange feelin’ deep down in my leather chaps was tellin’ me something was odd about this particular waterin’ hole. “Bone-Crusher’s Brewin’ Company” said the sign hangin’ above the saloon-style doors. We stepped in and asked the bar-keep to pour us two tall frosty beers. He gave us a confused look. “Ya mean like an IPA? Weisse? Pilsner? Brown Ale? Barley Wine?” “Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there fancy pants,” I interjected, “what kinda place you runnin’ here?” It took the bar-keep a Mississippi minute, but he soon realized that we weren’t too familiar with these kindsa drinks.

“Listen boys,” he said quietly with a grave stare in his glass-eye “you guys are craft beer newbies, and if the real die-hard, IPA sippin’ biker boys who hang out here get wind of the fact that you don’t know the difference between a stout and a porter, theres gonna be some trouble for ya’.” Now yours truly has seen a few bar tussles in his day. But were Rusty and I just gonna lay low like a buncha prairie dogs just ‘cuz some uptight ale artisan told us to? No sir-ee! The day I lay low is the day I send my old-lady child support—never! Anywho, we ordered the sampler; an array of seven beers which included the famous Finger-Blaster “Untrimmed” Pilsner (5.3% ABV), and the Back-Door Barista CocoaCoffe Grounds Stout (4.8% ABV). I woulda preferred my grandpappys illegal homebrew to any of ‘em (97% ABV, Not fit for human consumption).

Me and Clyde were practically weepin’ tryin’ to throw back these nasty concoctions. We might as well have been drinkin’ motor oil! Somehow our grimacing caught the attention of a real grizzly biker sittin’ in the darkest corner of the bar. He walked toward us and I swear the joint went silent ‘cept for the janglin’ of his spurs.

“The name’s Big Hank. I see you disrespectin’ the artisan brews at this here craft beer establishment. Last time some piss-water drinkin’ Bud-junkie like you came in here talkin’ smack, we threw ‘em in the brew tank. He added a distinct amber hue and a clean, bloody finish to their Vow of Violence “Dale-Infused” Belgian Abbey Ale (7.3% ABV)” Now your ole pal Clyde doesn’t take well to gentlemen who act like they own the dang place. So of course Rusty and I rolled up our sleeves and gave this bozo a real good staredown. “You wanna settle this once and for all?” Rusty said straight to Big Hank’s face.

“Yeah, I think I do,” Hank responded with a big, menacing smile, “and because I’m feelin’ a little generous today, we can settle this with a drink-off. And when you two lose, I can kick both of your asses!” “Beer-Meister,” Big Hank barked to the bartender, “please bring us a few rounds of your FINEST brews.” The glass-eyed bar-keep nodded and started filling up 3 glasses for me, Rusty, and Big Hank.

“Here you go gentlemen,” the barkeep said as he slid the beers toward us one-by-one, “Three pint glasses full of our very own Agent Orange-Peel Vietnam-Flashback Lager (5.4% ABV). I’m sure you boys will find this to be full-bodied and well-balanced, unlike our resident amputee Vietnam-veteran hanging out in the corner.” “So we’re just gonna see who can drink the fastest?” Rusty asked Big Hank, causin’ him to let out a hearty, menacing laugh. “Ahahaha, we’ll see if you Busch babies can even handle the superior drinkability of these tasty brews well enough to finish the whole glass...which was specially designed and crafted at a workshop in Brooklyn, by the way.” You might be sayin’ to yourself, Clyde, how hard could it be to finish a glass of beer? Turns out, it was harder than keepin’ two smokin’-hot twin sisters in your motel room until breakfast time. Those brews were as bitter as a bucket full of a trucker’s bath water. Somehow Rusty and I managed to slug back our beers, and we thought we were in the clear.

“No celebratin’ just yet, boys.” Big Hank said before he whispered something into the ear of the barkeep, who responded with a grave look on his face. He sighed, and reluctantly filled three tulip glasses with a peculiar golden brown liquid from the tap. “This is our DoubleDry-Hopped Two-Livered India Pale Ale (9.1% ABV, 140 IBU),” The bartender said. “It features a special strain of hops crossed with the Kentucky Thunderfuck marijuana strain (27.50% THC, Sativa), which gives this beer an unparalleled skunk aroma.”

“The day I lay low is the day I send my old lady child support- never!”

Now it is always tough seein’ a grown man cry, and seein’ Rusty burst into tears at the first sip of this beer was as heartbreakin’ as anything. I managed to choke down my brew, but only ‘cuz I’m used to brushin’ my teeth with bathroom soap after a night of Biting Fights with the stray dogs that live down by the train tracks.

“One swill-sucker down, one to go,” Big Hank said “Bar-keep! Get me 2 glasses of your VERY finest brew!” he shouted. The bartender pulled a tap handle made from a fresh looking human skull to release a foul sludge into the snifter glasses. He struggled to lift the “high gravty” ale to the bar, then added a grapefruit slice and a fistfull of yeast to each glass as garnish. “This is Bone Crusher Brewing Company’s ‘Oh Fuck’ Ale” (Gluten Free, 15.0% ABV). Please forgive me, ” the bartender said shamefully. I took a sip and tasted overwhelming notes of vegemite and chewing tobacco spit.

Big Hank ended up tapping out despite his “refined palate” and to everyone’s surprise, (includin’ mine) I finished the beer thanks to my tongue being jaded to the taste of tobacco chew. By this point I was way too drunk to remember how we celebrated our victory. All I know is that by the next morning Big Hank and Rusty got hitched at a 24-hour wedding chapel near the interchange, and I had a $140 beer and bocce ball bill at Bone Crushers Brewing Company that I had to weasel out of. So the lesson I learned was this: stick to cheap shit, and you won’t end up playin’ bocce ball at a craft brewery.

dilbert and kony

by andrew keating and jeremy kruman

So... uh... howâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re the kids?

Winter 2014

GARGOYLE

Arctic Polar Bear (Ursus Marmitus) blinking in a blizzard, covered in the blood of plummeting editorial standards.

Birth of a hero

By day, an ordinary Dairy Goat.

Folks say one ‘o these goats has got transgenic spider DNA. But that’s crazy talk.

By Night he is...

SPIDER-GOAT

Aw dait

Spider-Goat Strikes again

Help! Someone save me! Spider-Goat, Help!

ALUMNI AD BY PAUL DOBERTIN

THE GARGOYLE PRESENTS . . .

THE TOP 8 WAYS TO CHEAT ON A PAPER by CALEB NUSBAUM

Hey kids and kidettes! Those midterm blues got you down? Not to worry, your friendly friends at the ol’ Gargoyle have compiled a list of tips and tricks to help you slide right through a tough paper, and your prof will be none the wiser! 1. Always get a head start. There’s nothing more suspicious than a student who blows off all the work right until the night before. By starting early you’ll be on your professor’s good side, and we all know they hardly ever look there. (Most professors instinctively seek evil)

2. You can plagiarize a ton of the source material, as long as you hide it by breaking it into smaller chunks and, get this, putting the author’s name

right after it! You’d think these supposedly educated professors would notice after the first couple times, but on the contrary they give you credit for it! Kooky!

3. Make sure you follow the paper guidelines closely. As fun as it may be to simply copy and paste the phrase “gopher smegma” over and over until

you reach the suggested length, you’ll have to avoid calling attention to yourself so you don’t get caught. Think of yourself as Superman and the paper guidelines as a pair of glasses.

4. Although tempting, never copy the work of another student. This is a sign of fear, and professors can smell fear. Even a trace amount of unoriginal thought could spook them and harm your grade.

5. A header with four or more lines can make a professor feel, shall we say, “inadequate.” Keep your header three lines or less to make them feel at

ease. On a related note, make sure not to space out the header. Tiny imps can hide in the spaces and may sabotage your work when you aren’t looking. 6. Use an approved font. This is like disguising yourself with the enemy uniform. Think about it: if you were looking for enemy soldiers you’d definitely notice a soldier that was dressed up like “Lucidia Handwritting” and twice as large as the others.

7. A sneaky tip to keep your pages in order: you can put random numbers in the corners. Seriously! As long they start at 1 and proceed in increments of 1, and are preceded by your last name, they might as well be invisible to your professor or GSI.

8. Do not tear out this page and submit it in place of your essay. We’ve tried. It only gets a B-.

Well, there you go. Just follow these simple rules and you’ll be a lean, mean, cheatin’ machine! Now go and make papers your biznatch! Remember to thank your pals at the Gargoyle, ideally with a 12pack of PBR placed outside the Student Publications building and a nice thank-you card.

Winter 2014

THE GARGOYLE YOUNG ADULT NOVEL GENERATOR

BY CHRIS SEEMAN

Do you think you have what it takes to be the next J.K. Rowling? Suzanne Collins? John Green? E.L. James? You do now. as a recent formula has been discovered for creating money-machine YA franchises! Just follow the path and pick one element at each step, and you’re good to go!

STEP 1:

STEP 2:

STEP 3:

-- An intensive care unit -- A dystopian government -- A school for especially gifted people -- Brady Hoke’s minivan -- The world’s most generic high school -- Her own mind

-- The Man -- A recently media-frenzied disease -- The futility of existence -- That Bitch in Chem Lecture -- An evil warlock -- Kurt Cobain’s Ghost

-- Seeing into the future -- An indomitable spirit -- A disdain for conformity -- The voice of an angel -- A used copy of The Fountainhead -- That thing where you can twist around your elbow

STEP 4:

STEP 5:

STEP 6:

-- Her attractive GSI -- A hybrid vampire-werewolfGodzilla teen -- A charismatic teenager with Ebola -- A pint of Ben & Jerry’s -- Some guy she met at Rick’s -- She’s a strong independent woman who don’t need no man!

-- A needlessly large scale battle -- Accepting herself as she is -- Making it to Taco Bell before midnight -- Adderall -- Moxy and a little Pluck -- The realization that it was all a dream.

-- Randy Newman -- Randy Newman -- Randy Newman -- Phil Collins -- Lorde -- Randy Newman

You have an angst-ridden teen girl protagonist. (Tumblr will love you for it.)Where will her story unfold?

No good story (not that this will be one – you’re just in it for the money, no?) lacks a strong conflict. What’s yours?

But what’s this? It appears our protagonist has a special gift that will help her? Name it here.

Looks like our hero will be up all No happy ending, no profit! How At the end of part 7 for the film night to get lucky as well. With will our heroine achieve her goals adaptation of the final book, which whom will she (and the fan girls) within the story? artist sings the end credits song? fall in love?

Winter 2014

University Student Found in Detroit Zoo, Fetal Position By SARAH FOX Daily Staff Reporter On April 13, 2013, University of Michigan Freshman Luke Collard was arrested by authorities on several charges, after being found curled in a ball at the Detroit Zoo in Royal Oak, MI. The details of the story have been kept under wraps by both University and Zoo officials. However, we contacted Luke and he was excited about the fame the story might bring him. Senior Daily contributor Sarah Fox sat down with Luke on April 26, 2013 to learn more. SF: Hello Luke, I have a few questions I’d like to ask about the occurrence at the Detroit Zoo on Saturday the 13th,. Firstly though, I would like to just know how you got there, and why you went in the first place. LC: Well, I’d just rented Madagascar 3: Europe’s Most Wanted on DVD, and watched it for the first time. I just felt this real connection to those animals, you know, especially the sassy hippo. SF: Why is that? LC: Frankly I’ve been having body image problems, Sarah. And the hippo was very inspirational; she was just so sassy and confident. It’s been hard these past few months, I’ve gained 70 pounds.

SF: I see. LC: So I decided to get to the zoo to be closer to the animals, you know. I was able to hitch a ride with an older student I’d met when I threw myself in front of his car. After he hit me, we agreed that I wouldn’t tell the cops if he gave me a ride to the zoo. So I get there and I’m having a blast running around there, with all the creatures and such. Have you been to the zoo? SF: No Luke, I haven’t. LC: Well I’d take you but I’m not supposed to go back. SF: Oh. LC: Anyways, I was there and it was great and then I see some teenagers and they see me. They start calling me names like “Fat Ass” and “Fugly.” Kids these days can cruel, ya know. They said “Fugly get over here! We have somethin’ to show ya.” I didn’t go over there because it was the zoo closing time and I needed to get to my ride, so instead they grabbed me. They pulled me into a small secluded area and one of them pulled out a bag. They shoved me to the ground and the kid dropped this piece of meat in front of me. They said a small giraffe had died earlier in the week and they stole the carcass from the dumpster and they were gonna experiment to see if giraffe liver really does cause hallucinations like they read on the internet. So

they made me eat the liver because one had a switchblade and they wanted to test it on some jackass like me. It’s true, it does cause hallucinations. I felt real strange like. SF: Oh my gosh. LC: Yeah, I started yelling at the kids because there was a gang of violent giraffes behind them and I stole the one’s switchblade and the kids they ran off. The park was closing and I, I don’t really remember too well but I made my way into the giraffe yard. And this giraffe started talking to me, you know. This giraffe he sounded like Ross from Friends the TV show. I guess because he was in Madagascar 3: Europe’s Most Wanted. SF: David Schwimmer? LC: Yeah, yeah, Ross from Friends. He was in Madagascar 3. The giraffe told me he was pissed because I ate his dead son’s liver and that the least I could do is set him free.. I decided to free him and some other animals because I knew he would need pals for his zany adventures, you know. So I gathered a zebra and a baboon, oh and a few lemurs. I had enough good consciousness to know not to release any hippos or lions because they would eat the other animals. It felt like days went by getting these animals out, with all of the gate openings and closings and using the switchblade

to jimmy open cages and so forth. SF: And then what happened? LC: Well, the last thing I remember is seeing the baboon riding the zebra through the zoo, the lemurs running through the parking lot, and the Ross from Friends giraffe thanking me. And then I woke up in jail. I awoke hallucinating that the animals I released were on a big boat on their way to fun in Europe. Someone apparently saw the Ross from Friends giraffe walking about and alerted the authorities and everything got sorted out. I guess the Ross from Friends giraffe had been reported as a Peeping Tom, because he was by this house and his neck’s so long like. Even those lemurs were found and locked up once more, they were easy to round up because they’re so good natured. Luckily the zoo officials all loved Madagascar 3 as much I did, and took sympathy in my being forced to eat the giraffe liver, so they made a deal that they’d drop the charges. They suspected I was a lunatic, I figured. The University too, they covered up any evidence that one of their students was a loony. It’s just stigma, you know. Politics. But I’m ashamed, Sarah. I’m ashamed of the things I was put through, I’m ashamed of the person I am.

See Zoo, Page 17

ZOO from Page 16 SF: Well, it’s understandable. You were forced by those teenagers to eat the giraffe hallucinogen and it doesn’t really seem like your fault. I actually think you’re very brave. LC: Whoa...Do you maybe want to get dinner? Or perhaps we could watch Madagascar 3: Europe’s Most Wanted? SF: No. LC: Oh...I guess maybe I go then? Yeah I’ll go then, you know. Wait! I forgot to mention...the baboon riding the zebra, those animals haven’t been found yet. I think, well I speculate, that the baboon straddled that zebra off into the wild green yonder, off into the magenta sunset. Toward something neither of us could even comprehend... And the other day, I was watching Friends on TBS, and the show just stopped. Ross started speaking to me, he told me the giraffes needed me, that they had a mission for me, should I choose to accept it. I just got up and looked into my mirror, and all I could see in the reflection was a giraffe. Do you know what that means, Sarah? SF: Sorry, I don’t. LC: I don’t either...so did you want to go and get something to eat? SF: No.

Winter 2014

Local Christmas Pageant Letdown of Biblical Proportions By ANDREW KEATING Daily Theatre Critic As a lifelong Catholic, I was taught that Jesus loves all of us. However, after seeing the St. Margaret’s Catholic Elementary production of the Nativity Pageant, I think Jesus should reconsider. I was taught that God is always watching us, and if God was watching the same abortion of a performance I was last Thursday, I weep for him. “The Birth of Christ” is a case study in amateur thespian hackery, and should be avoided at all costs. I arrived at 6:57 pm. Father O’Donnell, the principle of St. Margaret’s, was greeting the audience as they filtered into the church. He handed me a program, along with a cup of hot apple cider, and thanked me for coming to the show. The cider was unremarkable, providing a small preview of what was to come the rest of the evening. The play began as Mary and Joseph took the stage. I immediately noticed the couple’s lack of chemistry. Bobby Johnson (grade 3) and Ashley Fredrickson (grade 4), stood nervously next to each other, appearing as if they wished they weren’t even on the stage. The actors seemed as if they didn’t even

share the bonds of liking each other, let alone of matrimony. Joseph and Mary never consummated their marriage, so where was the sexual tension? While Mary fumbled over her lines about the coming of the Lord, Joseph stared directly at the audience, at one point shyly waving at his parents in the second row. Unfortunately, I soon realized Joseph was not the only problem. As the scenes went on, almost every actor flubbed their lines at one point or another. One of the Wise Men (or should I say, not-so-wise-men) was particularly hard to watch, at one point forgetting his gift to the baby Jesus in the prop closet backstage. This faux pas obliterated whatever tiny scrap of immersion was left in this disaster of a performance. I should also discuss the musical arrangement of the play. While accompanist Doreen Johnson, age 89 performed bravely on the organ, I cannot say the same of the children’s’ choir. With little in the way of harmony or range, Mrs. Anderson’s 2nd Grade Vocal Ensemble was little more than a distracting nuisance. Their rendition of Handel’s Hallelujah at the finale was a disappointing end to an even more

disappointing display of “theatre” While I have harped on the quality of the acting quite a bit, I can’t put all the blame for this cardinal sin of a production on the cast. Some responsibility lies with the director. I was baffled that direction credit was given to “Youth Pastor Dan,” as there ought not to have been any credit at all given “Youth Pastor Dan’s” obvious incompetence in his debut performance. Overall, “The Birth Of Christ” had this reporter wishing for “The Birth of Anti-Christ”. And yet shockingly at the end of the show, the audience applauded. I would have guessed even this audience of Pro-Life Catholics might consider ending their torment with suicide (there could be no hell worse than this show I assure you) Perhaps St. Margaret’s can get their act together for the Easter pageant and avoid falling to the wayside of Ann Arbor’s religious community theatre zeitgeist. But this reporter has his doubts. Andrew Keating is the Michigan Daily’s Chief Theatre Critic, and is a featured columnist on the Google search results of his own name, if you get to the third page or so.

A Period Party in Minutes! By Sydney Glide

A girl’s first period can be a confusing time in her life. Realizing that you’ve just become a woman, and that powerful hormonal shifts with genital bleeding is normal now can be… a little startling! In the Hindu tradition, families often have a celebration for a girl’s first menstruation. Now I know we lack that cultural heritage that our friends south of the border have (personally all of those bright colors make me uncomfortable — we’re protestants) but we can all agree that a girl’s first period should be a large celebration, filled with relatives and work colleagues, with your daughter at the center of attention. Her first period will be full of tears, but planning her period party doesn’t have to be!

T hemes:

Party Games:

Dining Room:

Your Son:

Every little girl loves wordplay, so consider throwing a period period party. Break out those dress robes and petticoats! Your daughter is inline with the moon, why not go with the flow and throw her a werewolves vs vampires party! (quick tip: utilize themed decor that you already have like Bloody Halloween props and red Valentine Hearts. If you are planning the party on a patriotic holiday, you’ll only need the white and blue for a color scheme.)

The centerpieces will be the talk of the party! Place one hour glass shaped vase on each table, fill halfway with water (quick tip: blue food coloring will give you that classic “We’re not allowed to show uterine blood on television” look!) and insert a tampon into the vase with the string on the outside. Change every four to six hours. Simple, yet elegant!

While women everywhere were sad that day they retired the “menstruation belt” in favor of liners, humanity did gain the classic festive game “Stick the pad on the Undies”. Make it challenging by having pads with and without wings. Mix it up by having party guests try sticking their panty-shield to different shapes of underwear! (try using your old g-strings that you were considering donating to goodwill!) Guests will be thirsty from all of the play, so make sure their stomachs have something to absorb with your crimson fruit punch fountain!

Chances are that your son with anal fissures has a hard enough time fitting in. Tell him that sticking a tampon in the anus is normal, with the love that a Man-Stration party shows. He’s a man now, so make a fun cocktail by soaking that tampon in Smirnoff first.

Celebrate!

It’s an emotional 4-7 days for you and your daughter, so give her an amazing party that will take you less than 4-7 hours to prep! 16

HOME IMPROVEMENT by daphine zhao

Connect the dots to see how Brady Hoke feels!

1 3

Answer: (Sad Claps) Winter 2014

MOBY DICK II: DREAMS COME TRUE BY BILLY ‘BUDDHA’ COLLARD

The following diary passages have been graciously donated by the University of Miami Rosenstiel School of Marine and Atmospheric Science, after having been forcefully taken from the diary owners’ families, and before that having been found in a chest at the bottom of the sea. November 12, 2051. Call me Professor Papageorge. Today, the vessel known as the P.M.S Lollipop set sail in pursuit of the sea monster Moby Dick 2. This was chiefly because there was a righteous bounty for its killing, and the Captain, Mr. Beefheart was indebted to the IRS “a butt ton of money.” (as he phrased it). When I asked if my team of researchers and I could accompany him, he informed us that the P.M.S Lollipop was the world’s finest floating aerodome. It was quite an unfortunate name for a sea vessel, I had thought. Though none of that is important now. I had come for more profound scientific reasons; to study his elusive beast’s physiology. To do so required killing and slicing the monster, so in that regard Captain Beefheart and I both craved deep sea bloodsport. The creature known as Moby Dick 2 has been docume nted by numerous drunken sailors as being everything from a “particularly large sea spider,” to the “dark lord Cthulhu.” Modern science now knows that the creatur e is made up of many smaller organisms, together making one giant organism. Sort of reminiscent of the way some human jesters stand on each other’s shoulders with a long coat to form one mega-jester for comedic reasons. I was also also studying the manner in which slithery fishies survive by eating themselves and then regrowing those eaten parts. It is a process we big league scientists call “tubular.” We don’t actually have a name but we say “tubular” because we think it’s a pretty cool thing that these fish do.

November 13, 2051 Call me Ernie. Unfortunately Professor Papageorge had a bad asthma attack and just kinda keeled over. But, the journey continues. It is day 2 of our voyage and already 20 men have perished from sea sickness, along with 6 more professo rs taken away by asthma related deaths. With morale among the remaining crew low, I went to see Captain Beefheart in hopes of obtaining some ether or ethanol from him, as he possessed the medical supplies. Yes, he said. Have all the ether you want. Captain Beefheart seemed sad that most of his crew had died already. But the ether greatly raised the morale of both myself and the crew (now consisting of soley a set of triplets of Lisbon). After ingesting the ether and ethanol, we began to see colorful stars in the sea. The triplets from Lisbon jumped in, thinking the glowing objects were jewels and that they had all found their fortune. Hot damn! They had said. I heard much shrieking as the men were stung repeatedly by the beautiful glowing jellyfish. This is when I noticed it, hovering above the jellyfish. Moby Dick 2. It was ornate and ancient, even excessively baroque in demeanor. His glow sent a shiver right down to the tip of my dick. But it was not looking at me, it was looking past me, toward the other side of the ship. There was another creature. Moby Dick 3!, I thought. A much more slender, ergonomic looking monster. Captain Beefheart and I now stood side by side. He was in a drunken stupor and yelling profanities at the creatures. We had but fishing nets and harpoons. Sea monster hunting had not evolved very far as no one really did such a thing. The creatures lunged at each other in an impressive display. I awoke to the feeling you get when you only have half of your body left. I looked for my bottom half, but it was lost. As was Captain Beefheart. All I could see were shards of the ship, and the diary chest. This was not tubular. And, those are my last words. This is certainly not tubular.

DWARFISM: NOT JUST FOR KIDS by jeremy kruman

ric sat on the examining table, waiting patiently. The doctor knocked hastily, and opened the door before Eric could respond. He stood up to greet the physician, who appeared tiny in comparison to Eric’s six and a half foot stature.

could treat me like this. Please, hear me out.” He paused for a moment, and continued “Now, you seem to have acquired dwarfism. Have you re-” Eric interjected again.

“So what’s the story? Just a run of the mill flu case, I’m assuming?” Eric asked casually.

“Acquired dwarfism?”

“Well, Eric, uh…why don’t you take a seat?”

“I’m pretty sure when someone’s born, they’re either a little person or they’re not.”

The patient’s skin grew pale as his eyes widened. “What’s wrong?” he asked, clearly apprehensive. “Eric, I took a look at your test results. And, um…well, it appears you have dwarfism.” “What the fuck?” “Dwarfism, Eric. It’s a condition that is typic-” “Yeah, I know what it is. I came in today with a stomach ache!” The doctor butted in before he could say more. “Now, I know this must be a very difficult thing for you to hear…” “I’m twenty seven years old!” Eric sprung up to his feet, causing his flat hair to brush gently against the ceiling.

“Acquired, developed; something along those lines.”

“Don’t be ignorant Eric. Everyone’s little when the’rea baby! What we’re dealing with here is a medical condition, dwarfism, which can be diagnosed shortly after birth, or later in life as ‘Type 2’ or ‘Adult Onset’ dwarfism. At this clinic, we pretty much see a 50/50 split of each. Now, can you recall any recent exposure you may have had to dwarfism? Perhaps from a sexual partner? Have you been eatng your vegetables lately? Could you perhaps have been squished by a falling palette of bricks and then folded up like an accordion? I know these are uncomfortable questions Eric, but it’s important for me to know.” The room filled with silence as the doctor’s inquiring eyes gazed at Eric with excited anticipation. Eric stared back blankly. Without another word, he ducked under the doorframe and stormed out to his car. He returned to his apartment, where he died of Ebola less than a week later.

“Eric, I didn’t devote twelve years of my life to studying medicine at West Virginia University at Gary Indiana (Basement Campus) so that you

The real truth about drinking: what you didn’t know What college students are doing may shock you!

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The Fourth Cage on the Left Uncle Paw’s Down-Home Country Turkey Farm 4 Dirt Path Buttfuck Nowhere, Oklahoma The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 20500 Mr. President, My name is Archie. Archie Feathergobble. Yesterday, one of the guards here told me that I had been issued a stay of execution. Every year on thanksgiving, it has been a tradition for the president to publicly pardon an American turkey, and I guess this year that’s me. I guess I’m camera friendly, a good “turkey-like” appearance. They say I’ll meet you, take a few pictures, and after that I’ll be free-range again. I write to you today Mr. President, to urge you revoke that pardon. I’ve done some shit man. Shit that a turkey can’t walk away from. You can have your ceremony and maybe I’ll even wave for the cameras, but I know what I’ve done and God knows what I’ve done, and I’ve had a seat in Turkey Hell with my name on it since the day I was born 5 years ago. Honestly Mr. President, I deserve to fry. God knows I don’t have a family to go back to. My son hasn’t looked me in the eyes for 2 years, a turkey decade. I can’t live a normal life on the Outside Mr. President. I’ve spent most of my life now on Death Rowe, and whatever small spec of a turkey soul that was left in me all those years ago, died in prison. Every time there’s a rainstorm I long to just step outside and stare up at the sky until I drown and that sweet black horse Death will carry me down to hell. But I haven’t earned an out that easy, and I sure as shit haven’t earned no pardon. There are a lot of good turkeys out there Mr. President, but I’m not one of them. To be completely honest Mr. President, I don’t even care much for you or your policies. I’m just a simple turkey without a college degree and even I could tell you Benghazi was an inside job. My Corrections Officer Jim was tellin’ me that if I do end up walkin out of the slammer alive, I’m probly gonna have to end up buying health insurance on the Public Marketplace and I’d rather just stick my gobble on the chopping block now and get it over with quick. The ethical ramifications of your drone use in Pakistan are head spinning. Youre just as bad as any other president though, Turkeys still can’t vote and I’ll be buried six feet deep (in some fat uncle’s colon) before they can. Prison life ain’t a breeze, but it beats having to live with myself for what I’ve done. It sure as shit ain’t fixed me. I still do things that keep me awake at night, but I have to, theres a pecking order in the slammer and I’ll keep fighting beak and talon to keep my place. Just a few days ago I had to make a Turkey Zeta my Turkey Bitch in the showers, and spent a few days in The Chokey, but that’s where I realized something. If I find myself tits up in between two pieces of bread with some mayo and cranberry sauce on me, I’ll have brought more joy into this world than I ever could if I kept on flapping. Please reconsider, and God Bless America, Archie Feathergobble