Volume 104, Number 2 Winter 2013 by Gargoyle Humor Magazine

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R u d e J o k e s Fo r C r u d e Fo l k s

Table of Contents 1. Go Blue 2. This Page 3. That Page 4. Thanks for All the Fish

Volume CIV, Number 2 Winter 2013

5. Skin Suits & Pity Parties

Ross Warman . . . A Big Bag Of Wendy’s Wrappers Brett Sandler . . . . . . . . . . Pleasure Dome Max Smouha . . . . . . . . . . . The Rackmeister Michael McCrindle . . . . . . Heart of the Cards Samantha Trochio . . . . . . . . Gaping Butthole Ben Schlanger . . . . . Fun In The Prodigal Sun Francisco Guzman . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sisqo Alexa

Borromeo

. . . . . The

Invisible

Hand

Julia Braid . . . . . . The Braid & The Bold Gillian Golden . . . . . . . . . . . . Spoonfish Jason Gong . . . . . . . . Has Three Peg Legs

Allison Hawkins . . . . . . . . Master Inspector Margaret Hitch . . . . . Poultry Market Aficionado

Nikki Horowitz . . . . Get to the Price Chopper

Andrea Ye-Gin Hur . . . . . Oh, The Hurmanity! Neal Jackson . . . . . . . . . . . Handsome Neal

Kyle Landgraf . . . . . . . Brazilian Waxmaster J.J. Lundy . . . . . . . . . . Dr. Strangelove

Brett Phillips . . . . . . . . . . Understudy

Nico Pigg . . . . . . . . . . . Milk Masseuse Caroline Schaper . . . . . . The Schaper Image Michael Stephens . . . . . Who Ya Gonna Call?

Natalie Voss . . . . . . . . . . Alpha Librarian

Phil Wachowiak . . . . . . . . . Cheese Steak 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

6. X-Men Origins 7. Postcardum Depression 8. Just the Tips 9. One Hell of a Tailpipe 10. Busty Myths 11. Marriage Busters 12. Horse Joke #1 13. Gotta Catch ‘Em All! 14. MCANT 15. Oprah and Away! 16. Blue’s Clues: SVU 17. Existential Crisis 18. The Rickster Scale 19. Good Folks 20. Hide Your Body 21. Train Oil on My Pants 22. Dirty Mouth 23. Accepted by Cannes 24. Horse Joke #2

A Formal Investigation of The Every Three Weekly E

nclosed are the findings of the University of Michigan’s inquiry and investigation into the student-run organization responsible for publishing The Every Three Weekly. The Gargoyle was first approached in early Fall of last year by the Regents of the University who were becoming suspicious of The Every Three Weekly’s actions. Print media was dying a slow, inky death, yet the E3W reported not only record profits, but a record circulation nearly matching U of M’s premiere news satire publication, The Michigan Daily. Petty crime on campus had also enjoyed a sharp spike at the time. Quoting one of the regents, “We are seeing two things happening and believe they could be related. That’s Occam’s razor.” At a preliminary meeting with The Gargoyle’s editorial staff, one of the regents presented a manilla folder containing the past six issues of the E3W. “We think there may be some clues in here,” spoke the anonymous regent, “but we never make it past the headlines.” The Gargoyle’s hard-boiled staff was eager to take on the investigation. In hindsight, “very eager,” many say. One of the Gargoyle’s brave and well-groomed writers went undercover, shaving both his beard and his chest to pose as “Johnny Jokesguy,” an enthusiastic freshman interested in joining the E3W. Days were spent scouring the campus for the E3W’s oﬃce until it was realized that their staff consists mostly of nomadic hunter-gatherers and that they hold meetings in either the bathroom at Charlie’s or the Church street Amer’s dumpster. Quoting the E3W’s editorin-chief, “Once we deal with the homeless problem, we can finally move into an alleyway befitting our publication.” Ingratiating himself into the E3W’s staff was not easy for “Johnny.” He had to laugh in earnest every time a squirrel joke was made and congratulate the other writers for lampooning such topics as dining hall food quality, annoying classmates, and other similar subjects already sucked Saharan-dry of any worthwhile comedy. Yet Johnny persevered, gaining respect until he was invited to a secret, weekly meeting not held in a dumpster. Upon arrival he was pleasantly surprised with popcorn and a Mike’s Hard Lemonade, only to find out that the staff of the E3W gets together every week and watches “Birth of a Nation.” The investigation continued until Johnny’s cover was blown after writing a great and hilarious article with illustrations rather than poorly photoshopped images of campus. This immediately tipped off the editorial staff, as the E3W’s art staff is just a sad alumnus who can use Google images and likes to fingerpaint. Johnny awoke the next day to what he thought was a severed horse’s head in his sheets, but in fact turned out to be a turtle defecating in a glass jar. After freeing the turtle, he found a note on his dresser that read “The jig is up, Gargoyle! Also, what’s the deal with old professors? They sure are quirky, right? Haha!”

In his final report, the Gargoyle’s undercover operative stated simply, “A lot of weird shit happens at the E3W, but as far as a conspiracy is concerned, there’s no evidence to support it. People just like their jokes or something. Probably has to do with relevance or whatever. Additionally, I can only claim that the E3W commits as much petty crime as the next humor publication, although an unusually large percentage of their misdemeanors involve stamp fraud and frottage.” The regents, although displeased, were forced to concede defeat and allow the E3W to continue publication, but released a public statement that “no student, faculty member, or other aﬃliate of the University is required to actually read The Every Three Weekly. If we’re good, maybe The Onion will come back to Ann Arbor. That would rule.” It was later discovered that a fish and chips chain had been ordering thousands of copies of the E3W to serve their product in, finally putting the mystery of their popularity to rest.

Reflections... What Gets Me in the Mood

with Brett

I’d like to describe to you just what gets me in the mood. What really does it for me is a dim room with the blinds drawn, some quiet music, and the Wikipedia page for Joy Division peeking out behind an episode of Frasier I’ve seen four times. Ya, what gets me in the mood is a quiet night where I invite a pretty lady over for some Settlers of Catan and she knocks my terrarium over and it spills into my Wile E. Coyote diorama and I spend the next four hours whimpering and gluing it back together. What gets me in the mood is a bellicose BBW picking me last for dodgeball. Man, nothing gets me in the mood quite like like an ill-timed existential crisis while I’m sitting on Santa’s lap even though I’m 22. I’m telling you, there’s nothing quite like the feeling I get at a ball game when I’m on the Jumbotron and they zoom in on my desert-dry cuticles that I’ve been picking at all day. Sometimes I get in the mood while I’m lying in bed at night, silently ruminating on the image of a schoolbus full of trash. Yup, nothing gets me in the mood quite like bemoaning my various maladies, both domestic and exotic, to people wearing headphones.

Life Hacks for the 21st Century If you need a couple extra minutes in the morning, don’t eat, shit, or shower. Aluminum cans can be fashioned into pretty much anything, such as a crude weapon or a last-minute engagement ring. The Game of Life is an excellent substitute. VHS tape is strong enough to use as a belt or a noose. If you’re trying to keep something safe, hide it in plain sight: give it to a child. Live on the street so bill collectors can’t find you. Single mothers are often less particular about your looks. Write “come” instead of “cum” so people think you’re educated when you describe your night terrors. If you smoke menthols, you don’t have to brush your teeth. If you have nothing and no one to come home to, stay extra late at work. Bring some lizards into your apartment to clear up the roaches. Posters can cover up the holes you’ve punched in the walls. Tired of paying for lightbulbs? Discreetly snag the bulbs from the bathrooms of your friends. If you have a baby and a small dog, pool their wardrobes. The choking game is a great way to get out of jury duty or make it go by faster. If you chew gum while you smoke Reds, it’s the same as a menthol. Ammonia and bleach are a great one-two punch for cleaning stubborn messes! What your martial arts instructor won’t tell you is that the only true training technique is auto-erotic asphyxiation. Nudity is the ultimate aphrodysiac.

Winter 2013

An Illustrated History of The University of Michigan’s Mascot 1817: On the way to the founding ceremony for the University of Michigan, the carriage transporting all two professors and six students runs over a wolverine. The wolverine is quickly declared the mascot and celebrations ensue. 1818: The original wolverine carcass really needs to be thrown out and is consequently replaced by a live wolverine named Frode.

1817 1818

July 1818: Following several maulings, including then President James Monroe, Frode is shot, poisoned, and drowned several times, but refuses to die and remains the mascot for two more years.

1820

1820: Frode is diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Unfortunately, the medicinal properties of lithium are not yet well understood. Frode disappears following a manic episode in which he stays up for four days designing what would later become the Cube.

1835

1835: Following several years failing to find a replacement for Frode, the university recruits a Chippewa tribe member whose name loosely translates to “Dangling Wolverine.” 1836: Crowds grow bored of Dangling Wolverine’s quiet sobbing. He is retired to a cage within the stadium lockers. For the rest of his life football players scream and shake his cage as a pre-game ritual.

1860: Dangling Wolverine passes away and is given a respectful burial on university grounds. Inadvertently, the university is thus built on an Indian burial ground and hauntings ensue. To this day, if you listen closely, you can hear a disembodied voice reminding you that “maize means corn.”

1836 1860

1863: The university buys a wolverine suit, but the student wearing it is clubbed by fur trappers and sold to the Dutch Midwest India Company.

1863

1911: The university adopts Ricky, the rabid minstrel wolverine. Following public outcry, the university tries to wash the blackface off, but can’t get close enough.

1911

1942 to 1945: During the war years, a Nazi POW is brought to every home game and mauled by a wolverine before kick off.

1942

1962: JFK’s dashing smile and good looks are declared the new mascot. November 22, 1963: In a disturbing coincidence, the mascot is shattered by a failed field goal attempt at the exact moment the president is shot. December 1963-1967: University President Willard Cummings declares the smooth and delicious flavor of Dunhill cigarettes mascot as per the Surgeon General’s endorsement. 1970: The Block M is adopted as the mascot, but is fired after failing to appear at any games. October 10th - October 17th, 1991: For one ill-fated week the mascot is replaced by a hoarse-voiced girl from New Jersey named Sarah. Consequently, the university adopts a policy to never again maintain a mascot. 1992 - Present: The Wolverine is reinstated as mascot.

1962 1963 1970 1991 1992

Post Cards

By Gargoyle

Place Stamp Here

Dear Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Hey there Joe! Can I call you that? ...I’m gonna do it! Anyways, we never hang out! Haha! I guess we’ve never really hung out, but still, what a shame. I’m actually writing because of just that. Let’s do something nice, maybe have a picnic or play paintball with the boys. Do you like to go to parks? We could take turns pushing each other on the swing and having a great time. Do you like playing pool? Do you like playing in pools? I just so happen to have one, and I’ve got all kinds of gear: water wings, noodles, a ﬂoaty basketball set. We could easily spend all day in the pool--but then we’d get all pruney! Hah! It would be cool if Nike made you a custom shirt that said “Just Levitt.” Or better yet, it would be cool if we spent an afternoon silkscreening shirts! Think about it! Love Best, Brett

Winter 2013

7 Tips to Spice Up Your Masturbation Life BY NICO PIGG

ou know the scenario: it’s Friday night, your roommates are out for the first time all week, and you finally have time for some good old fashioned self-stimulation… but you’re just not feeling it! Is your masturbation life not as fulfilling as it once was? Do you ever feel like sometimes you’re just going through the motions and not truly gratifying yourself ? Are you bored with yourself, no longer able to hold your own at…well, holding your own? Don’t worry! After these seven tips, you’ll be the Wayne Gretzky of pocket hockey. 1. Mix up your routine One trick to breaking the tired, boring cycle of your batin’ schedule is to add a little spontaneity. Try this: set an alarm on your phone with your eyes closed. Don’t look! As soon as that alarm goes off, no matter what you’re doing, drop everything and rub one out. You’ll be wowed at how naughty you feel excusing yourself from parent teacher conferences in order to pleasure yourself in the parking lot. One minute left on your white cheddar soufflé? Better make it a quickie! Variety is the spice of life after all! 2. Roleplay A surefire way to bring some fire into your single bedroom (or Olive Garden restroom, empty playground, etc.) is to throw on some costumes and let your inner thespian free. Toss on a pirate hat, a leather vest, some temporary tattoos, and suddenly it’s Jack Sparrow that’s furiously jerking off in his desk chair. Ladies, maybe find a nice powdered wig, slip on a corset, and pretend that it’s Marie Antoinette that’s decided to stay in and diddle herself. Really try to get into your character and figure out why it is that Chewbacca’s beating off in a broom cupboard. And you’re not the only one that can dress up! Guys, why not put a little lipstick and some googly eyes onto your fist and show your new friend Pamela Handerson a good time? Ladies, glue a paper cut out of your favorite celebrity to your dildo and now it might as well be a seven inch, hot pink Ryan Gosling between your legs. Tiny dresses, felt beards, miniature cardigans: with a little time, effort, and costuming, masturbation doesn’t have to be so soul-crushingly lonely! 3. Don’t underestimate the element of surprise Keep yourself guessing, or play some sexy games with yourself. Try making a sexy cootie catcher with different body parts and sexual acts on it. Stroke your nipple? Fondle your earlobe? Tickle your labia? Who knows! A little bit of variety can go a long way in making things seem more exciting. 4. Loud and Proud Get vocal! Try a little dirty-talk, tell yourself what you like. Don’t be afraid to let out a little moan or gasp to show yourself that you appreciate what you’re doing. Calling out your own name during climax can really strengthen an emotional connection with yourself. 5. Ball-Gags and Blindfolds and Handcuffs, Oh My! It might seem a little daunting, and only proceed if you’re very comfortable with the idea, but adding a bit of bondage to your routine can be quite exhilarating. Slip on a blindfold, tie yourself up and suddenly you’re entirely at your own mercy; there’s no telling what you’re going to do to you…and be careful with that hot candle wax! NOTE: It may be a good idea to leave a note on your door or let a friend know what you’re going to be doing before you try this one. Handcuffed, naked, and afraid is not a good way for your landlady to find you. 6. Go Ahead and Splurge Find a good sex shop, do some research, and treat yourself to something nice! Had your eye on that wall-mountable, seven headed, variable speed vibrator? You deserve it! Fellas, I think you’d be truly impressed with the recent technological innovations in the field of things to stick your dick into. Sure, you may be spending all of Grandma’s Christmas check, but it’s good to treat yourself every now and then. For the Frugal Masturbator: Conscience won’t let you spend 60 dollars on a rubber vagina? A strategically placed plastic baggie, a couch cushion and a squirt of hand lotion is basically the same thing. Ladies, in a pinch, just take a stroll down the produce isle, pick anything phallus shaped, slap a condom on it and you’re good to go. 7. The “Cosmo Classic” Stick a finger up your butt. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.

50 Shades of Car BY PHIL WACHOWIAK

he was an older model, but he liked that about her. He could drive her around whenever he liked and she would never complain. Even when he waxed her early on a Sunday morning, she wouldn’t protest. Never a complaint, not even when he took a hose to her. It was a late night, but never too late to ride her. As he stepped outside he stood for a moment in the night, marveling at her body. Suddenly he couldn’t help himself—he grabbed the handle and pulled. It wouldn’t budge at first so he had to slow down, easing it forward until she gave way. A second later he was inside her. “It’s just you and me baby,” he said as he caressed her soft, velvety interior, admiring all of her knobs. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, making sure to rub every last bit of finger oil onto the tight leather. There was a little mark on the wheel so he stuck his finger into his mouth, wet it, and rubbed it. But it wouldn’t go away so he licked his finger again and kept teasing until it was warm and wet and slippery. In a flash he twisted his wrist and her entire frame began vibrating. Suddenly he remembered something else. Gently he slid out of her and went around to the back. He teased his key into her back and twisted. Slowly she opened herself up to him. Then he put a hand around her side and stuck his other one in. When he had the spare tube of oil he moved back to the front. Finally, he put his hand on the stick. He went to shove it forward but it wouldn’t budge. “Come on baby,” he whispered to her. He took a deep breath and rammed it forward. She gave a little jolt, but that was okay because she was used to it. He adjusted the mirror and stepped on the gas. A flood of vibration trembled throughout her body and she pulsed forward. As they coasted down the street he drew a cigarette and lit it. When he pulled into the parking lot it was raining, and it was impossible not to imagine the way rain drops landed on her skin and slid all the way down her body. He couldn’t wait to wax every single inch of her.

Winter 2013

BY MICHAEL STEPHENS

ne spring, after a 48-hour marathon of Mythbusters that happened to coincide with an equally long PCP binge, a team of University of Michigan students and amateur bustologists (a term which can be applied to those who bust myths AND those who study boobies; this team was comprised of both) decided to apply Jamie and Adam’s methods to a smattering of myths popularly circulated around the University of Michigan campus. Their qualifications: a distant relation to the guy who proved the moon landing was a hoax, a thirst for knowledge, and passing grades in a one-credit chemistry minicourse about Diet Coke and Mentos. Their findings are recorded below. Myth: If you step on the block M on the Diag, you will fail your ﬁrst bluebook exam. We decided to start with a bang, the biggest campus myth of them all: the Diag M myth. And it happened to be the easiest to test, too. One of our bustologists had a sister who was a freshman, and who the rest of the bustologists found to be a very ample subject to study. But that’s besides the point. One day, while she was walking across the Diag with two of her (equally ample) friends, we jumped out from behind some nearby bushes (wearing full camo that we got from our colleague’s dad who was in ‘Nam), pushed them onto the M, and ran away before they could slap us (we pushed them on their amplest parts to get the most scientifically accurate results). We later showed up to their freshman writing seminar on the day they got their midterms back (wearing camo so we could blend in). We creeped up behind their seats, ‘Nam style, to see what they got on the tests. Our researcher’s sister got an 87, her blonde friend got an 84, and her redhead friend’s test just said “See me after class ;) ;) ;) Love your Sex-Professor Clowndaddy” where the grade was supposed to be. Our attempts to interpret the meaning of the redhead’s grade were inconclusive, but two out of three is enough to say: Status: Busted

“Most of his bones and internal organs were broken, and he was hospitalized for the rest of the year. Yet he still had to pay full tuition.” Myth: If you are hospitalized by a U of M bus, your tuition is free for the rest of your time at Michigan. This experiment was beset with confounding variables from the beginning. The first three times we tried to hijack a bus to test the myth, we accidentally stole an AATA bus, a Greyhound bus, and an Organic Chemistry syllabus. By the time we got around to actually hijacking a blue bus, the PCP, that is, our inspiration, was wearing off, and with it, so was our commitment to scientific principles. Consequently, we got it in our heads that it would be a good idea to half-ass this experiment and only lightly wound our test subject. We convinced a drunk student to let us run over his finger at five miles per hour. He was hospitalized, but only for a night, and his tuition remained unchanged. Reasoning that the physical harm must be more substantial for its financial side effects to kick in, the next night we convinced another drunk student to let us run him over at thirty miles per hour. In case he was like Houdini and could brace himself for the impact as long as he knew it was coming, we installed an array of concealed knives along the front bumper and undercarriage of the bus. Most of his bones and internal organs were broken, and he was hospitalized for the rest of the year. Yet he still had to pay full tuition. Status: Busted Myth: If your roommate dies, you automatically receive a 4.0 GPA. Unsatisfied with the results of the bus accident experiment and riding a fresh new wave of inspiration, we decided to test this similar myth with a larger sample size. Luckily, we remembered that we had previously locked one hundred pairs of roommates in their East Quad rooms for a since de-funded experiment on zero-privacy masturbatory etiquette. Even luckier, they were still there when the dorm’s renovation began over the summer. Once the building was a rusty fire hazard blockaded from the outside world with mile-high electrical fences, we unlocked the doors and scrawled instructions on what little whitespace remained on the walls, which

were at that point mostly covered in cries for help drawn in feces and nacho cheese from the cafeteria. Weapon caches were hidden throughout the dorm, and students were encouraged to use those, along with the asbestos-lined pipes that had long been a fixture of the basement to kill their roommates in a Battle Royale-like fashion if any of them wanted to get out before we activated the trip mines (that we also got from our colleague’s dad who was in ‘Nam). Unfortunately, this happened during the summer and none of them were enrolled for summer term (due to being helplessly locked in their rooms for the entire enrollment period), so we were unable to determine the effect that the massacre had upon their grades. Status: Plausible

inspiration-fueled jealousy and also take turns kissing her (except her brother, that would skew the scientific results due to bias and also be totally gross). Needless to say, a kerfuffle ensued, and we were all left unsure as to the validity of our experiment. We hoped to repeat the procedure, but a restraining order filed against us by the entire female student population of U of M prevented this. However, it turns out that we didn’t need to repeat our experiment after all. It took us twenty years to gather the evidence, but now she’s living next door to Manny in a mansion paid for with the proceeds from five alimonies and thirteen monthly child support payments and we can finally say: Status: Confirmed

Myth: The University of Michigan never cancels classes due to bad weather because a law student sued the University for doing so back in the seventies. To gain the insight we needed to bust this myth, we tracked down that very law student, Manny Goldsteinsilverberg, who is now a corporate lawyer for both Disney and Google. We snuck past his cybernetic attack poodles and lava sprinklers and got into his mansion using that same sweet camo (Did we mention our colleague’s dad was in ‘Nam? He was a whore tester for the army). When asked at gunpoint, Manny explained that this rumor was started as the result of a huge misunderstanding. He didn’t sue the University for canceling classes due to the weather; he sued the University because the weather had given him a cold while he was peeing off the bell tower. Incidentally, he won. But the result of his lawsuit was not that the University stopped canceling classes, just that they installed a urinal on the landing of every flight of stairs up the bell tower. Status: Busted Myth: If you kiss someone under the arch at the southeast corner of the diag at midnight, you will get married. To test this myth, we decided to once again recruit the help of our researcher’s sister, because she was such an ample specimen. We lured her with the promise of free Campus Tan coupons and the soiled underwear of either Justin Bieber or Ryan Gosling. We agreed that our lead bustologist, being the most qualified (his great great grand uncle thrice removed proved the moon landing was a hoax), would leap out from the bushes (once again wearing camo to blend in) and plant a big fat juicy one right on her wordhole. What we failed to anticipate was that the other bustologists would be overcome with

Fall 2012

An Investigative Review of the MCAT BY J.J. LUNDY

s an investigative reporter with no substantial knowledge of the sciences and no medical school prospects, I was a tad reticent about being assigned to review the Medical College Admissions Test. However, I remembered the most important advice my father had ever given me: “Don’t ever give up a chance to show your journalistic integrity and skill.” These were the last words he spoke to me before he was “trampled” to death while writing an in-depth exposé on the corruption of the bull semen industry. I must admit that the MCAT was a mystery to me. From my empirical knowledge, it seemed that those who take it are given special permission by society to occupy a large amount of space at coffee shops and libraries with their laptops and many reading materials. To prepare for this exam, it seemed that I needed to take full advantage of this privilege. The day before the exam, I went to the Shapiro Undergraduate Library to begin my intensive study session. It was very crowded, but fortunately for me I had my MCAT privilege. I announced to the entire third floor that I needed at least three spaces worth of room to study for an important doctor test, but to my shock, not a single person obliged. Had the general public lost its respect for the future medical community? I needed another tactic if I was going to get the full MCAT experience. Having gone to school at the Oprah Winfrey Leadership Academy, I was taught that in situations like this you have two choices: make someone your bitch or become one (the other kids in my “learning” cell knew not to f--- with me). I proceeded to grab a shank I had hidden in a library copy of Chicken Soup for the Vegetarian Soul and started waving it around at a table of freshman.

“Upon our escape to the outside, Miss Winfrey embraced me with her meaty arms” To sum up the rest of the night, yes I got my space at the library, but at the cost of DPS taking me to the University’s jail minutes later. I must admit that it was much more terrifying than the Oprah Academy, especially since the academy did not have Wally the Wolverine, an oﬃcial mascot/jail-keeper that turned out to be an actual wolverine. With my bail set at $1000 dollars, I knew that if I were going to be able to take the test in the morning, I would have to call an obliging friend promptly. So naturally, I called my good friend Oprah G. Winfrey. The G technically stands for Gail, but now I like to think it stands for Gangster (or Gangsta, depending on how much Childish Gambino you listen to) because as soon as I told her my situation, she was “a woman on a mission to get me out that cell.” You see, we became good friends back in the day after I wrote a letter to her requesting to have celebrated designer Nate Berkus remodel the Academy. Although the renovations ended up being sub-par (sea-green padding in the combination solitary confinement and math classroom? Yikes!), Oprah and I totally hit it off and became BFFs, staying in touch over the years. Only when Miss Winfrey arrived at the DPS jail did she tell me that she did not have suﬃcient funds to bail me out. However, she did have a trick up the sleeve of her Ralph Lauren tracksuit.

To appease the sickly beast that was Wally the Wolverine, she approached him with utmost caution. He growled at her while she began to ask him questions such as “who in your life has inspired you?” and “did you know that anyone can make a difference in this world?” Yes, the intent was to bring out his softer side so he would be more sympathetic to my cause, but when that approach failed to appease his wolverine whims, Oprah compromised for my safe release by adding his novel to the Oprah Book Club. (It was just a chewed-up copy of Judy Blume’s Superfudge covered in saliva, but it would fly off the shelves thanks to her seal of approval.) Upon our escape to the outside, Miss Winfrey embraced me with her meaty arms and before I knew it, the Oprah-copter was hovering overhead with its ladder dangling down, eager to carry my friend Oprah away to her weekly lunch meeting with Kourtney Kardashian and Maya Angelou. As I walked across the Diag, I looked at my watch to see that I only had two hours before the MCAT! At times such as those, I am often reminded of my deceased father’s plentiful advice: “The best way for a journalist to overcome their fears and uncertainties is to become thoughtlessly determined in following their goals.” He spoke these words unto me just before he was shot and killed by a Coast Guard oﬃcer while doing an undercover expose on homophobia in the cocaine smuggling business. With my passion for the MCAT rejuvenated, I knew I needed quick transport to the test center. Neither bikes nor cars would suﬃce, but the U of M underground steam tunnels seemed like an excellent option. Without hesitation, I descended into the complicated concrete labyrinth. It wasn’t as bad as the urban legends say; the Jimmy John’s down there is actually pretty decent despite the fact that they use mostly subterranean rodent meat. The only horrid sight I saw was a lost tour group from 1993 aimlessly wandering around in their out of fashion clothing. They were dressed “grunge” or maybe their clothes were deteriorating. Either way, I couldn’t find the heart to tell them about Kurt. As soon as I stuck my head above the surface, I was in front of the testing center. There stood a group of undergraduate students wearing sweat pants and sweatshirts, smoking cigarettes and nervously scanning their notes. I was truly starting to feel the vibe of “I’m exchanging my sanity and comfort to make a lot of money eight years from now” and I was really diggin’ it.

“His eyes lit up like my flame-engulfed apartment” A few minutes later, the doors opened to the testing center, and I was ready to show my knowledge to the medical world. However, the incredibly rude oﬃcial taking names at the door of the testing room had some devastating information for me: I didn’t sign up or pay money, so I would not be able to participate in the ritual that was the MCAT. My heart sank for a moment, but then I reminded them that I e-mailed them requesting a press pass. Still no dice. I then recalled that the e-mail address I used was put on a universal block list after I used it to repeatedly ask Nintendo if Yoshi was a Pokémon for three years straight. I shamefully moped out of the test center with my tail between my legs. I knew I would be fired from my publication for not

doing my job, which would be devastating because the money I make from writing goes exclusively towards funding my collection of pornographic VHS tapes recovered from Osama Bin Laden’s hideout bunker. It was a shame knowing that my mantle would be two tapes short from completion. Who knows what sick, perverted eBay bidder would get “Naughty Jihadis” and “Baghdad Gangbang” instead of me?

“I proceeded to grab a shank I had hidden in a library copy of Chicken Soup for the Vegetarian Soul” As I continued to accept the fact that all hope was lost, a crusty and very suspicious looking gentleman approached me. I tried my best not to look him in the eye, but he surreptitiously whispered to me, “Psst, hey kid, you look kinda down, wanna buy some medicine?” “No sir, and please don’t say the word ‘medicine’, it only reminds me of the fact that I am not taking the MCAT right now,” I responded. His eyes lit up like my flame-engulfed apartment after the maiden voyage of my homemade tanning bed. “I have just the thing for you!” he exclaimed as he opened his oversized U of M windbreaker. In a pocket between an array of illegally-sized sex toys and a sandwich baggie labeled “BLAK TAR HAROIN DO’NT EET” was a scrunched up piece of paper. He dangled it in front of me like a piece of meat…could it be a contraband copy of this month’s

Winter 2013

MCAT? “It can be all yours…name a price” he said with a slimy persuasion. After an intense, four-hour bargaining session that left us both in tears, we agreed upon me giving him free advertising in my publication. Once I was in possession of this sacred document, I quickly laid it out flat on the sidewalk and started looking at the questions. The first problem involved a doctor whose hospital was set up like a maze on one of those Denny’s paper placemats they give kids. To solve this one, I had to draw a line to guide the gurney through to the surgery room. Sure, it took me a few tries getting through the maze with my magenta crayon, but I eventually got the patient to safety! The MCAT seemed really easy! The next question involved searching for doctor words such as “ORGINS,” “BOANS,” and “MEDIKLY-INDOOSED-KOMAH” hidden in a bunch of random letters. This was also challenging, but I used my--wait, was this just a heavily edited Denny’s placemat? My worst fears turned out to be true. I was duped. I should have known by the pictures of pancakes and the giant “MCAT” poorly scribbled over the Denny’s logo. At this point my only option was to laugh. Yes, I would be fired from my job for incompetence, but I had learned some valuable lessons. One is that being Oprah’s friend is useful for more than the fact that she can bump you up on Dr. Oz’s celebrity heart transplant recipient list. Also, I learned that students can trust no on-campus drug dealer more than Ulysses the Dank Slinger for all of their narcotic needs. And finally, I learned that acing the MCAT is a tall order, but it can be the Grand Slam that will certainly butter up medical schools and make getting accepted over-easy!

BY BRETT PHILLIPS The police inspector walked inside the squashy clay house as an invisible force opened the front door for him. He was greeted by a 2-dimensional blue dog and the sounds of intro music. Assuming he had been slipped some acid in his coffee that morning, the inspector decided he would just go with it and get down to business. He started with the dog. “Can I have your name, please, Miss?” “Brrp-brr-bew!” “Oh…kay. And I understand you were one of the witnesses here today?” “Brrrp-brrp-br-bewwww!” “Uh huh. So you saw the assault take place? Did you see the assailant?” “Brrp?” The man in the purple sweater met the police inspector’s eye from across the room. He begrudgingly got up from the terrific ass-and-thigh massage he was getting from his Thinking Chair and introduced himself. “Hi, the name’s Joe. I can help translate what Blue says for you.” “Okay great,” the inspector sighed, “and you’re the owner of the house?” “No, actually, the owner is my brother Steve. He hasn’t been home for a while though, not since he impregnated an underage girl and was brutally murdered by her father…I mean, he went to college.” “Sure.” “Anyway, Blue said she was there when the rape took place. She saw the whole thing.” “Show me the room of the crime please.” I’ve got to really be tripping some balls here, the inspector thought. “Sure,” said the man in the purple sweater, “it’s just in the kitchen.” After a quick song, Joe jogged in slow motion with the inspector to the other room. Blue followed closely, doing backflips and sticking her tongue out sideways. Seconds later, they arrived at the kitchen counter. Resting on the wooden surface of the countertop was a pair of 6-inch glass salt and pepper shakers. There was something else though, the inspector noticed. Something spilled, right next to the two shakers, lying in a pile of sticky semen. The inspector picked up the scent of the substance immediately. Paprika. “As you can see, Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper here are deeply distressed,” Joe frowned, gesturing to the two inanimate shakers. “Their child Paprika lost quite a bit of her contents during the attack.”

“Yes, I would guess that could be as much as a 40% paprika loss,” the inspector observed. “How yucky that’s going to be to clean up...” “Oh I’ll just get Shovel and Pail to take care of it. They love doing that kind of thing. I’m just so worried about my two friends here.” Joe wrapped his hand around the pepper shaker and whispered some condolences. The inspector opened his eyes wide and stared off into the distance, reflecting on how truly fucked up he must be. He shook his head and recovered his thoughts. “Yes, how awful,” he stammered. “Umm, anyway, so you said your blue dog here saw what happened?” He turned to face Blue. “Brrp-brr- bew!” “Yes, but Blue can’t just tell you who did it,” Joe giggled. We have to play–Blue’s Clues! In fact, we’re in the middle of a game right now!” “Uhhhh, what–” “You are gonna play Blue’s Clues You are gonna play Blue’s Clues You are gonna play Blue’s Clues Because Paprika got raped!” The inspector and Joe began jogging back to the living room, chugging their arms back and forth as if they were running ten times as fast. “Don’t worry, Inspector,” Joe cried, “I put all the evidence from the first clue in my Handy Dandy Notebook.” He tossed a miniature spiral notepad with an extra-large green crayon to the man next to him. The inspector opened the notepad to find a drawing of a cylinder with three squiggly lines over it, indicating that the cup’s contents were scorching hot. “It was a cup of Joe!” exclaimed Joe. He chortled at his wit. “I’m sorry, but would the blue paw print on your face explain any of this?” the inspector asked, dazed. “I’m sorry if it’s not really there. I’m pretty sure I accidentally took two or three hits of acid this morning.” Joe gasped and screeched to a halt just as they were entering the living room. “Of course! There’s a clue on my face!” “A clue?” “Blue puts her paw print on each clue,” Joe explained, smiling and bouncing, eyes wide as saucers. “She gives us three clues and I draw them in my Handy Dandy–” he paused while the inspector continued to stare off into the distance, “Notebook, and then my friends and I figure out what Blue is trying to say.” “You and your friends?” the inspector asked. “And who are they?” “Just the small children who come to my house to play every afternoon,” Joe told him. “But I need to draw this second clue!”

With that, he snatched the Handy Dandy Notebook from the inspector’s hands and began vehemently scribbling a picture of his own face. The inspector reached a small foot stool next to the Thinking Chair and stared into its smiling face, which was located on its lone drawer. “This table is alive, I think,” he said, “and there’s a huge letter on top of it with another paw print.” “Aha!” Joe shouted, “thanks, Side Table Drawer. The final clue is on the outside of this letter we got from our friends yesterday, right on my name and address. What a great letter it was, too. Our friends learned how to jump through hula-hoops while peeling a banana. Remember, Blue?” “Brp-brrew!” Blue crossed her eyes and ran into the wall. Joe quickly jotted something down in his Handy Dandy Notebook and took a seat in his Thinking Chair. “Now,” he continued, oozing himself back into his ass-and-thigh massage, “we need to think about what these clues mean. Who could Blue be saying was the culprit by marking a cup of coffee, my own face, and my printed name and address?” A rough sketch of each clue appeared over their heads and wiggled around in the air, keeping the inspector mesmerized. Joe squinted off into space and thought. Finally he snapped his fingers and shouted, “I got it! The rapist is… Mr. Salt!” “Brrp-br-brrrrr!” “We just figured out Blue’s Clues We just figured out Blue’s Clues We just figured out Blue’s Clues Mr. Salt diddled his kid!” “Well,” the inspector started, his voice monotonous and disoriented, “I guess my work is done here. I think I’m finally coming down from that trip.” He began to walk slowly to the front door. “Wait! You almost forgot to take the culprit of this terrible crime with you.” Joe handed him the lifeless salt shaker from the kitchen and smiled eerily. “Maybe I haven’t started to come down just yet,” the inspector said, and left the squashy clay house to the sound of Joe’s So Long Song.

A Gargoyle Sports Special:

A Day in the Life of Manti Te’o

BY NICO PIGG

anti Te’o awakened to a dull throbbing behind his temples. The headache was back again. Just months earlier, he had suffered the tragic death of both his grandmother and his girlfriend, only to have his emotional wounds torn open again by the revelation that his so-called girlfriend had never even existed. That beautiful, caring soul that he loved and trusted only existed in his mind and a few stolen facebook pictures. The laughs, the cancer, the stolen afternoons on the beach, the tears, the sex, oh god the sex…none of it was ever real. It wasn’t enough that Manti had lost the love of his life on the technicality of her existence, but now he had to deal with public humiliation and a rabid press. So for the past several weeks, Manti’s chronic headaches had returned. A particularly sharp pang drove Manti to get up. He would call his mother; she always knew what to say. Manti picked up his cell phone and dialed. Riiiiing….Riiiing…Rii-“We’re sorry, the number you have reached is not in service at th-” Manti hung up. Apparently his mother had changed her phone number and forgotten to tell him. He tried his father. Riiiiing….Riiiing…Rii- “We’re sorry, the number you have reached is not in service at this time. Ple-” Now seriously concerned, Manti spent the rest of the day trying to contact his parents, or any of his various siblings, but all that he got was the same phone message over and over again and several unhelpful call reps. Without any other options, eventually he resorted to calling the police department of his home town. “Hello, I would like to report two missing persons. Brian and Otillia Te’o. Their address is 17 Loala Street” “Sir, is this some sort of joke?” “What? No! I just wan-“ “Because this is a small town, kid. I grew up here, and I’m the sheriff here, and I know every single person in this town. I can tell you right now that 17 Loala Street isn’t any address in this town, and there sure as hell isn’t anyone named Brian or Otillia that’s ever lived here. Goodbye.” click. No…no, not them too. Please not now… Manti felt as if there was a vacuous pit where his stomach should be. Somehow he had known it all along, deep down inside himself. My family is as imaginary as my girlfriend. Manti couldn’t breathe. He looked desperately around his apartment for somewhere to sit, but all of his furniture had disappeared. He collapsed on the ground, desperate for air, suddenly acutely aware that both of his lungs were an elaborate hoax and nothing more. The remarkable pain now engulfing his entire head forced Manti to shut his eyes as he felt the cosmos and space-time itself slip away, now clearly the products of a malicious internet scam. Focus Manti. Bring yourself back. Reel it back in. Manti focused on the throbbing in his head until suddenly it went away as if it were never there. He opened his eyes. He was naked, sitting in a sparse, plain white room. Manti got up and sat down in the single chair in the room, facing a solitary window on the opposite wall. Manti Te’o closed his eyes and began to Think. He began the Renewal.

Winter 2013

Rick Snyder’s Restaurant Reviews Captain’s Quarters I’d heard great things about their mahi mahi, but I accidentally dropped my silverware on the floor and was too embarrassed to ask for another set, so I got the chicken fingers instead. They were good, but I’ve had better. They didn’t have any Greek yogurt either, so I had to dip ‘em in honey mustard. 3/5 Ricksters Smoketown USA The ribs had sauce on them that made eating very messy. Of all the days to forget my bib at home, it had to be today! Just my luck. 1.5/5 Ricksters Taj Palace My lamb vindaloo took forever, and I’d left my copy of Entertainment Weekly in the car, so it felt even longer. I filled up on bread and brought my dinner home to heat it up for breakfast. I never did get a chance to try it, but my bloodhound Romper pigged out on the whole thing when I wasn’t looking, so it must have been alright. Now he’s dragging his bottom on the carpet, but I don’t know if that’s good or bad. 2/5 Ricksters Mellow Mushroom I got a grilled cheese sandwich with ketchup, which was pretty good, but when I was paying my check I accidentally called the waitress “Mom,” so now I can’t ever go back. 3.5/5 Ricksters

“I recommend... the food!”

BY BEN SCHLANGER Hooters This one had been personally recommended to me by fellow governor Chris Christie, so imagine my disappointment when I walked in! The waitresses dressed and behaved VERY unprofessionally, often invading my personal space and showing far too much unwanted affection. The food was dreadful as well. Even the “mild” wing sauce was much too spicy for me and upset my stomach. I still can’t imagine how Governor Christie could love the place so much–perhaps the women in Atlantic City are just more dignified than the waitresses here in Lansing. 1.5/5 Ricksters Zen Garden Japanese Cuisine I was a bit startled when the ramen didn’t look like the kind I’d always loved as a child, but after I picked out all the vegetables it was actually quite delicious. I ordered a ginger ale, and the glass bottle was shaped like a fish! It was just so silly that I had to take a camera-phone picture and photo-text it to my wife. It’s amazing what you can do with an iPhone. 4.5/5 Ricksters Mulligan’s Pub and Grill For a restaurant that claims to have invented the cheeseburger, their sliders left an awful lot to be desired. Maybe I’ve just been spoiled by better establishments such as TGI Fridays, but when a man orders mini-burgers, he expects them to come with American flag toothpicks in them. It’s also very frustrating when the management decided that it needed to dedicate all six TVs to play some Michigan basketball game and couldn’t use a single one for Jeopardy. I’m just glad I had the good sense to TiVo it before I left the house. 2/5 Ricksters The Old Spaghetti Factory The soup was too hot and the ice cream was too cold, and it didn’t get any better when I mixed them together. Plus the napkins were pretty small, which was no help when I spilled water all over my lap. Old Spaghetti Factory, you’ve made a very powerful enemy today. 1/5 Ricksters Ramsi’s Cafe I don’t remember much about the food, but their juice selection was very good, and the waiter even mixed my specialty. If you mix equal parts cranberry, grape, and orange juice, it tastes just like melted rainbow sherbert. I told him he should add it to the drink menu and call it “The Rickmeister.” So if you ever go to Ramsi’s, be sure to ask your server for a Rickmeister! 5/5 Ricksters

Restaurants are evaluated from zero to five Ricksters on a logarithmic scale, as determined by the food, how it tastes, the theme, and how nice the waiter is. Zero Ricksters is bad, but five is just beat-all!

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The Little Engine That Could (Orgasm) BY ROss WARMAN Watty Piper’s 1930 masterpiece The Little Engine That Could is arguably one of the most famous works in the history of the English language. The novel is ostensibly one about class-consciousness and the working man’s struggle for dignity. However, this dominant reading of the text often overshadows some of the key subtext. To ignore the psycho-sexual forces that lie deep within the heart of the work is intellectually and academically negligent- nay, criminal! This essay will seek to explore and expose the deep Freudian and sexual undercurrents present throughout the work as a whole. The primary conflict of the text arises from the inability of the train to climb up the hill. From the get-go, sexual imagery is omnipresent. The train is a powerfully phallic symbol, one representing strength and virility. The connections between machines and sexuality is omnipresent in Western society: from vibrators to Michael Bay’s Transformers, machinery is inherently erotic. The train is placed in immediate opposition to the hill, an ambiguous feminine symbol. Scholars have argued for decades over what exactly the hill represents: a pair of hips, a really nice boob, or even a shelf butt. Regardless of the specific nature of this symbol, it is placed in immediate juxtaposition with the train, a primal clash between man and woman. This clash manifests itself in the primary goal of the work: to summit the hill. The phallic train seeks to reach the top of the hill, reaching both the figurative and literal climax. However, the pursuit of this goal (in the book as in life) is hindered by himself and others. While the train first seeks to conquer the hill, it finds the task impossible. None of the other trains are willing or confident enough. It is, ironically the smallest of the engines/phalluses, that is willing to attempt the journey where the others have all refused. Does this prove that size doesn’t matter? Or is Watty Piper merely trying to promote puny penis propaganda? The answer lies in the author’s intent, which, alas remains inscrutable to us. The train proceeds in his attempt to conquer the hill, relying on the mantra “I think I can. I think I can”. The deliberate quoting of Freud’s personal translations of the Kama Sutra is not subtle, but it is effective. The story ends on a peaceful note, with the train stopping on the other end of the hill, smoking a cigarette and leaving money on the dresser for a cab.

Winter 2013

Eating Dirt at the University of Michigan BY BRETT SANDLER

he Gargoyle is impassively pleased to present to you, our valued reader, one writer’s sashay into the culinary world of dirt. This review is brought to you by Bobby Bernstein, our special kindergarten correspondent, and yours truly, Brett Sandler, a staff writer with a markedly low sense of self-worth. I wasn’t thrilled to write this review; deciphering a kindergartener’s desultory notes isn’t my ideal assignment, but sometimes you feel like you’ve got one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. “Fuck it,” I thought, “I’ll eat some goddamn dirt to pay the rent.” I think it was a Tuesday when the editor-in-chief walked up to my desk and slammed down a bundle of crayon-scented construction paper on my Sudoku. “What the fuck?” I inquired. “Sandler, I told my little cousin about the Gargoyle and he wrote a review of eating dirt for us and I’m not sure what to do about it. More importantly, I’m afraid of his dad, so I think we have to publish it.” “Shit,” I mused. But he cut my ruminations short, “It’s not a choice, write the article.” I watched the EIC walk away with a noticeable strut, frowned for a minute, then restored my incognito tab of Naked Minesweeper. Bobby’s notes could wait another 45 minutes. Once I got around to reading them I found that they were mostly shit, but this assignment was at least better than the exposé on cultural recognition where I had to walk around campus asking bulky black guys if they were on the football team. Anyways, turns out Bobby can’t write for piss and he writes all of his r’s backwards. What was I supposed to do, tell my editor to fuck off ? Well, conflict has never really suited me, so I put on a denim bib and stuck my face in a bed of geraniums. Where does one start on such an assignment? How do you go about reviewing the dirt at U of M? From the ground up, of course. I popped a shoe in my mouth and sucked/sulked for 15 minutes. Decent, maybe two stars. But it wasn’t enough, I needed to acquire a real taste for grime. I put my ass up and my tongue down then licked around for some earth-

shit. I made a few rounds of the oﬃce until a woman in accounting caught me under her skirt and accused me of being a pervert, but I was just trying to lick her high heels. Finally, I caught a muddy footprint and scooted my way right out the door, hot on a trail that smacked slightly of cinnamon and Adidas. A handful of yards later I was at my car--the trail was my own and it hit me like a Peruvian landslide--I couldn’t taste the difference between the mud on my boots and a fine potter’s topsoil. Who was I fooling? Only myself into thinking I was cut out to eat dirt! Such gustatory hubris! I sensed that somewhere Emeril Lagasse was having a stroke. Clearly I needed to recompose myself, so I plopped down in the Diag and whimpered for a while until someone rushed by trying to get a free hug and their rolly-backpack knocked me face-first into the ground. I found myself with a mouthful of the M--its fresh taste cleared my head and I had an epiphany: dirt is in all kinds of things, like mud and fingernails. I was shocked to realize just how out of touch I was; dirt was all around me yet I had never given a thought to the experience of dirt. What gives soil its quintessence, its raison d’etre? What evokes the emotion of mud? I’d felt like dirt a lot, but never lived it. Such a sorry situation required immediate redress, so I undressed and went to the law quad to roll around for the afternoon. For the first few hours everything went according to plan; I got stepped on, kicked, urinated on, potted, taken root to, and as luck would have it, a professor also put a cigarette out on me. I began to feel it, that ineffable fiber of meaning that underpins the most humble of existences, that modicum of mien in every dirt-crumb I sprinkled on my ice cream. I silently vowed to embark upon the path of the Buddha in hopes that I might be reincarnated as a garden bed or at least a bag of litter. Now that I was in touch with my subject I was on a roll, I ate dirt on a roll, the world was my dirt-oyster. You’re probably familiar with the run-of-the-mill dirt found around most of campus, so I won’t bore you with the minutiae, however, I found that eating dirt entails numerous considerations, such as umami, consistency, body, and the age-old debate of big dirt vs. little dirt. Little dirt can get stuck in your teeth, but big dirt can hurt your jaw if you try to eat it all at once. Big dirt can also have rocks (which are a kind of dirt fetus) that simply can’t be chewed. Believe you me, it’s not like finding an everlasting gobstopper. My teeth still hurt and I may have to see a dentist, but such is the price of journalistic integrity. For the conscientious consumer, dirt may just be the ideal food. In today’s world roughly 98% of all dirt is classified as fair-trade organic, and despite the efforts of the scientific community, every attempt to

genetically modify dirt has ended in express failure. Having established a base understanding of dirt’s culinary aesthetic, my first stop in search of earthy fare was the West Quad dining hall, but to no avail. When I asked if they served something that “looked any more like dirt” I was kindly asked to leave. “Fuck off,” they requested. Perplexed, but undeterred, I left, initially heading for the graveyard until I realized that was pretty messed up, and then for the Hatcher Graduate Library. Dirt in the Grad is great, it’s like a Neapolitan chronology of flavors dating back to the last time someone swept. If you poke around in the Serbian thesaurus section, you might hit paydirt and be lucky enough to sample a 1921 Great Plains dustball or the everexquisite 1932 Great Depression loam-loaf. For the daring gourmet, I recommend tracking down a professor emeritus and skimming the dirt from their clothes and unpublished papers. Needless to say, it’s aged, but I found that with dirt that doesn’t tend to matter. Lest we allow the forest to blind us from the trees, remember

that dirt is all around you. Didn’t wash your hands? Aces! Give ‘em a suckle. What’s that green expanse between East and West Hall? Desert. Whoa, did that sorority sister just drop her scone in the East quad construction lot? Well, one man’s trash is another’s piquant pastry. It’s all about expanding one’s culinary horizons, most people just never give dirt a first chance or a second thought. Although the prospect of eating dirt didn’t initially tantalize my buds, I find that I’ve become a dirt-gourmand of sorts, a gourmound, so to speak. It’s cool; I get along well with sommeliers and foodies now. My taste has developed in new and exciting ways; It used to be that I would eat a bug and not even notice. No more, no longer. I can pick that flavor out before I even put the dirt in my mouth. Allow me to leave you with a simple saying, one that most children are familiar with, but is lost on the adult population: sticks and stones may break my bones, but stir-fried, well, they’re not so icky. God bless, and may you look upon the ground with a newfound gaze, perhaps tinted by a cloud of pepper and coriander.

The Adventures of Logan McBigdick - A Film Treatment by Kyle Landgraf -

We open on freshman LOGAN MCBIGDICK, a young, handsome, cool guy with a big dick (to be played by the screenwriter), who has just arrived in Ann Arbor after a long train ride from a province in French Polynesia. Also, he’s totally a vampire. He arrives in his new dorm and meets his roommate, SAMMY BEATBOX, a nerdy guy with an average-sized dick and a heart of gold who can hack into any computer, often saying “I’ve hacked into the mainframe.” Naturally, he thinks Logan is the bee’s knees. They get Pancheros together. Despite his overwhelming “YOLO” awesomeness and ability to play almost 3/4 of “Wonderwall” (his hand gets tired), Logan McBigdick has a hard time making friends in his dorm, especially when he is constantly harassed by his RA nemesis, ADOLF SUCK, an annoying loser who masturbates to non-Brazzers porn, or he would if his dick weren’t so small and pathetic. He is also a vampire hunter. One day, after getting some Jimmy Johns, Logan goes for a brooding walk in the Arb to the music of Mumford and Sons. Suddenly Adolf Suck has followed him and tries to ambush him. Fortunately, Logan remembered his vampire hoverboard™ and makes a stylish escape after banking off a tree then doing 4-5 kickflips (to be enhanced with CGI). Adolf Suck then vomits seven gallons of semen. Knowing he is not safe, Logan gets some Bubble Tea then goes to the Union poster sale and picks up a bunch of boss posters including the John Belushi “College” one, the Pink Floyd Butt Album Cover one, and the one with the two chicks kissing in their underwear. After opening up a TCF account, Logan goes to Wendy’s where he meets ZOOEY DESCHANEL CUTEBUTALSOSPUNKY, a cute but also spunky girl to be played by Natalie Portman. She reveals she is also a vampire. She gives Logan three consecutive handjobs (note: vampires have no refractory period) while more Mumford and Sons plays. Suddenly Adolf Suck appears to attack Logan again for being a vampire. Suddenly again, he remembers he took an entire bottle of laxatives 30 seconds ago and then shits what was left of his father’s love in front of his girlfriend who simultaneously also gives Logan a handjob. Afterwards, Adolf Suck’s dick falls off. Sammy Beatbox records it on video with his hi-tech gadgets and posts it to Youtube. Everybody high-fives then they go to UMIX. END

Winter 2013

REEK of the

BEAST

™