Volume 104 Number 3 by Gargoyle Humor Magazine

Table of Nonsense 1. Shameless Steadman Rip Oﬀ 2. This Page 3. That Page Volume CIV, Number 3 Spring/Summer 2013 Ross Warman . . . . Real-Life Comedy Editor Brett Sandler . . . . . . The Fuzz Down Under

Max Smouha . . . . . Sidecars And Fine Cigars

Michael McCrindle . . . . . . . Might Be Dead Samantha Trochio . . . . . . . Raccoon Tamer

Ben Schlanger . . . . . Hardened Grocery Thief Phil Wachowiak . . . . . . . . . Farmer’s Delight Gillian Golden . . . . . . . . . . Shit Sherlock Francisco Guzman . . . . . Amateur Absquatulater Allison Hawkins . . . . . . . . . . . Space Pilot Margaret Hitch . . . . . . Tentative Troubadour Nikki

Horowitz

Basketball

Hero

Andrea Ye-Gin Hur . . . . Not Related To Ben

4. Pynchon Pies 5. Get Frosty 6. What Is Scorekeepers? 7. Bearded Farewells 8. Get Anxious 9. Learn Your Racial Profiles 10. Filth Page 1 11. Filth Page 2 12. Sei Gesund 13. W-A-T-E-R P-I-P-E 14. Air Bud Is Dead 15. Fun Dip Causes Cancer 16. Lonely Drones

Neal Jackson . . . . . Judge, Jury, And Jackson

17. 7 Steps To Success

Kyle Landgraf . . . . . . . . Longbow Adept

18. Garbage In

J.J. Lundy . . . . . . . Flag Burning Enthusiast

19. Garbage Out

Nico Pigg . . . . . . . . . OTC Drug Mule Caroline Schaper . . . . . . . . . Strepmother Michael Stephens . . . . . . . Lightly Garnished Natalie Voss . . . . Confiscated My Magic Cards

Sam Wilkins . . . . . . . . . . Gentle Jehova 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

20. A Match Made In... Ugh. 21. !tI teG I ,hO 22. Apocalypse Chow 23. Pervert Wrestling 24. See Ya, Suckers

PoMo Kitsch The Postmodern Kitchen Soup

Infinite Zest 1 lemon, whose pith we will expose and celebrate

5-7 large rocks Dish water

Invite every person in your city or metro area1 over to help you cook a meal. Be sure to offer everyone copious amounts of drugs at the door2, and give them a wide selection of movies to choose from to watch3 while you cook. Invite one of your guests to attempt to zest the lemon.4 Repeat until the lemon has been zested or everyone is catatonic.

Place rocks in heavy saucepan and cover with water. Bring to a boil over medium heat. Reduce to low and simmer for 20 min. Season with salt/pepper and throw it at your wife.

Mom’s Apple Pie

Chances are your lives are deeply interconnected in ways you can’t even fathom , so they’re not really strangers. 2 But if you haven’t memorized and can’t recite on command all of its street names, its scientific name, its manufacturer and a witty list of its effects, you can just fucking forget about it. 3 See note 2 vis-a-vis release date, studio, runtime, plot, type of film used, etc. 4 But make sure they are deciding to do so of their own free will, perhaps through the use of a waiver, release form, etc. 1

1 Oven Fresh Sandra Lee Frozen Apple Pie Preheat oven to 250°. Unwrap pie and warm for 15-30 min. Serve immediately and leave the oven on overnight. Best served with a bit of freezer burn or a subtle sense of hostility.

Aperitif ½ gallon Crystal Palace Vodka Uncap vodka Exhale all breath and press on your diaphragm. Empty all vodka into a potted plant and stare longingly at the plastic husk of crumpled ideals.

Grilled Knees Sandwich 2 slices white Wonder Bread™ brand bread The bee’s knees Butter Kneel face down in a small pan set to medium heat and peer into your neighbor’s window until lightly toasted. Make a small face with one slice of bread a la Hannibal Lecter and don it before the guests arrive. The guests will never arrive and you need medical attention. Think about what to do with that other slice of bread in the urgent care waiting room.

House of Grape Leaves 5 to 6 Large grape leaves 2 cups of rice A charming selection of fresh vegetables Minced lamb Ostensibly benign spices As you mix your spices, mince your lamb, and timorously poke at the vegetables in front of you, invite one of your guests to narrate your quickly loosening affection for life. When all is lost, which it most certainly is, your eyes drag across the counter and you notice a second sink where once there was nothing. Your guests will not notice. Indulge yourself and let the grape leaves fall to the periphery—stick your hand as far down the sink as it will go. Surprise! You find 7,500 yen, treat yourself to something nice.

Robert Frost Goes to College CORRUPTED BY MICHAEL STEPHENS

Sleeping with Wives on a Snowy Evening

Acquainted with the Bong

Whose wife this is I think I know. He’s working in the city, though; He won’t see me drink his craft beer And buy mad drugs with all his dough.

I have been one acquainted with the bong. I have packed tight the bowl -- and cleared the bowl. I have taken a hit so very strong.

(Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening)

The gardener must think it queer That though the lord’s at his career The lady’s with another guy And her squeals of joy are quite clear. He calls the lord, who thanks his spy, Back to his home in haste he’ll fly. And now that the wife’s quite asleep I must leave from betwixt her thighs. I hate to leave her with that creep. But I have promises to keep, There’re more wives with whom I must sleep, There’re more wives with whom I must sleep.

Rum and Beer (Fire and Ice)

Some nights I decide to drink rum, Some nights it’s beer. When I want to strut with aplomb I mix my coke with lots of rum. But when I want to wow a peer Or get in spirit for the game, I chug a few fucktons of beer, And yell “You’re lame!” In someone’s ear.

Spring/Summer 2013

(Acquainted with the Night)

I have swallowed a magic brownie whole. I have passed by campus security And hid my eyes, whose hue I can’t control. I have been asked how I’ll get a degree When all I do each day is smoke my weed. I answered, “My major’s in the RC.” But this lifestyle’s faults I must concede; Sometimes I hallucinate Mao Zedong Is trying to convince me not to breed And people keep calling me Tommy Chong. I have been one acquainted with the bong.

YOUR DOWNTOWEN GROCERY STOR

216 N. FOURTH AVENUE, ANN ARBOR | 734 . 994 . 9174 | PEOPLESFOOD.COOP

Bring this ad in for 15% off at Bongz & Thongz

The Inter-Cooperative Council at the University of Michigan

2, 4 and 8 Month Contracts! on North & Central Campus

Now signing contracts through Winter 2014! All utilities High-speed Internet Homemade Meals Shared Work, Shared Fun Leadership opportunities Single/Double rooms Parking available

WWW.ICC.COOP

INFO@ICC.COOP

337 E. William St, Ann Arbor, MI 48104 Phone: (734) 662-4414 (ext.100)

A Senior Farewell from Brett Hi I’m Brett, the content editor. There’s a picture of me right above this with my pal Sean. He’s a good guy. I’m the beard guy. Anyways, I had fun at the Gargoyle and did a lot of diﬀerent things. It was cool to make jokes with all sorts of fun people and a real pleasure to work with other weirdos, perverts, and social degenerates that might have otherwise gone unmet. Read the Gargoyle, work for the Gargoyle, make people laugh, don’t sweat the small shit, and don’t let yourself get the best of you. That’s about it. I’m damn proud of the Garg and everyone I worked with. Stay righteous brothers and sisters.

Nervous Nate’s Nervous Date Y

ou were supposed to be here five minutes ago. I purposefully made reservations for six o’ clock and arrived ten minutes late so you would be the one waiting alone at the table. You look pale. Is it a disease? I hope you didn’t contract something from one of those villages in Africa you’re always traveling to with the Red Cross. Is smallpox still a thing? I should get vaccinated. Phew, there you are, arriving less than a minute after I do. Was that planned? Oh, you had to work late at the hospital. That must be why your lipstick is a bit smeared. I want to say something about it, because it spills just slightly onto your cheek, and now your face is a tad oﬀ center and anyone that looks at our table will see it and hate us. Ah, there you go with the napkin. A little to the left. Yes. No. Down a little. Perfect. You look great. I wish I could admire the way you look tonight, or the conversation we’re having, but you’re wearing that black satin dress again. It’s your favorite dress, but it also has those god-awful sequins. Every time I look at your dress I can’t think of anything other than whether those are ovals or if they’re really circles. “What are you getting?” I blurt out. “I think I might try the chef salad.” A chef salad? That’s not a meal! Your skin looks like it’s lipid starved and begging for pasta. And did you see the lettuce over at the next table? All the leaves are wilted and I bet they serve iceberg lettuce here instead of the good stuﬀ. Those tomatoes don’t look ripe either. What if they were dropped on the floor—or even worse—in a bucket of raw eggs? I have to admit I phased out a bit after the waiter took our order. It’s not you—I’m thrilled to hear that the patient in room 234 woke up from his coma—it’s the couple at the table on the other side of the room. Remember that time we sat at this same table in this same restaurant and made fun of all the other couples? They’re doing it to us right now and they’re laughing harder than we were.

BY PHIL WACHOWIAK Maybe they think there’s something wrong with us. He gestured at the water. It’s probably contaminated. This always happens: we get our food and suddenly my steak looks like a breeding ground for E. coli. Your salad doesn’t look as bad as I thought, but I wish there was a way I could sneak a few dozen croutons into your bowl. Now that you’re safely in the car I can’t help but think about the bedroom. If your ribs can almost puncture my coat, I can only imagine what they will do to my chest when I thrust forward. We’ll probably go back to my apartment and I’ll hold you just like I’ve been practicing. Then somehow I’ll make the wrong move and I’ll end up on the floor with a punctured lung. Still, when I look at you in the car, I have to admit your cheekbones are delightfully attractive. I’m sure any man would be willing to have an aﬀair with you. Not that you’re unfaithful—no, you’re probably the best woman I’ve met in my entire life. You even feign ignorance when I shower with my clothes on in case someone is watching. You suggest tea when we arrive at my place, so I put on a pot of hot water. If you’re feeling frisky, let’s do it soon because I can’t stand the sight of those damn sequins on your dress. Every time I look at them I want to shake my first and yell: you are not circles! I return from my trip to the kitchen and it looks like I won’t be worrying about the sequins, or the dress, but fathering a child that could potentially lead to overpopulation and a collapse in global infrastructure. Even worse, now I have to worry about your ribs and how they’re poking out at me. And just when I start to feel paranoid you do that thing with your finger and suddenly I lose all sense of reason. Did you wash your hands before doing that? We should both probably wash our hands after eating at that restaurant. Oh what the hell, my zipper is broken. That’s fine, I can work around it. Look out ribs, here I come.

Further Reflections...

with Brett

Tony the Tiger and Me Vietnam was a shitty war. Brutal, unnecessary, and absolutely fucked from the start. That’s why I got the hell out of there, just chose a direction one day and fled into the jungle. That’s the start, that’s where the story begins, but it’s not the story anyone wants me to tell. “What was it like?!” they demand, “Why did you do it!?” People can be relentless, and there’s no foliage for me to hide in here. Anyways, to make a long story short, I guess the answer is fame. I hadn’t eaten or slept in days, and I thought he was THE tiger. Tony, ya know. Why else would I suck a tiger’s dick?

Medically Speaking According to one of my friends, it’s not a disease, so he says. My doctor calls it a compulsion, but I’m not so sure. I dunno, why not rub a little Neosporin on my back, chest, and abs? It’s not a crime and it’s cheaper than beer. What does analgesic mean? It costs about $1.50 extra, but that buck-fifty really knocks my balls out of the park. I mean, Goldbond’s pretty much like rubbing flour on my pecs compared to the ‘sporin. Medically speaking, Neosporin is a triple-antibiotic traditionally applied to cuts and burns. I wouldn’t know about that. I’m up to seven or eight tubes a week, so comparatively that makes me an enthusiast. It’s a hobby. A friend told me that a hobby means you do something three times a week and his dad is a doctor, but also in jail.

AMCULT201 - 21st Century Racism Professor Nico Pigg

Course Description This course will provide an introductory exploration of racism in the 21st century. We will investigate the origins, intricacies, and veracity of pervasive stereotypes that haunt various cultures across the globe. The primary texts and group discussion of AMCULT201 will elucidate and scrutinize commonly held beliefs such as: • The French can’t ride bicycles • Ethiopians are terrible listeners • Peruvians have never figured out how to play the accordion as well as other unfortunate generalizations. Prerequisites While there is no prerequisite course for AMCULT201, students will be required to keep a detailed and reliable journal of all foreign-seeming people they encounter, so strong note taking skills are a necessity. Course Format Lecture will meet Mondays and Wednesdays at 2:00 PM. Students will be introduced to primary texts and ideas, such as the debate on whether or not modern Russians can make a decent omelet. Discussion sections will meet twice a week to explore the primary texts for the week (for instance, Tsar Nicholas II’s 1900 Frittata Treatise). Section meetings will contain in-depth examinations of the material presented in lecture as well as personal inqueries, such as whether or not your uncle Henry is racist because he refers to Puerto Ricans as “the element” or if you’ll honestly be okay if your daughter marries a wealthy black man. Required Reading • The Complete Youtube Comment History of ThunderFag69 • Bumper Stickers on Dusty Old Pickup Trucks Vol. 3 • The Collected Works of N00Bpwnr666 • “ You’re really going to make me say that?” Memoirs of the only black cast member of a Disney Channel sitcom In addition, your primary textbook for the semester will be “I’m Not Racist, But” and Other Observations by Esq. Douglass Bertram. Final Project In addition to three short essays and weekly homework assignments, there will be a final project to be turned in on the last day of class. Students will pick their favorite minority studied during the semester and shadow several individuals of that ethnicity. Students will quietly observe the daily life of their chosen ethnicity and present their findings. Bonus points will be awarded if the student can provide evidence that disproves a stereotype, such as a video of a Latvian that can juggle, or a Malaysian that uses a seat belt.

Spring/Summer 2013

Adult Diapers and Me

ike many other college students, I am always on the lookout for an easier solution to underwear. I have found in my years of experience with panties that there are a lot of diﬀerent ways to soil them. For example, as a young woman who now has to strip the wallpaper on monthly basis, menstru-hation can be a real twat especially if it arrives unexpectedly and ruins a pair of your bloomers. And it doesn’t stop there! What if you piss your pants every time someone uses a microwave? OR what if you pull an Al Roker and fill your pants during a visit to the White House? So many problems and seemingly no solutions! That’s why I use adult diapers. I don’t have to deal with unplanned bouts of incontinence nor keep buying new pairs of skivvies every week. Adult diapers are already designed to be disposable, just like daily contacts. This is nice because if you are anything like me, and you haven’t washed your clothes in six weeks, and adult diapers are a much more comfortable alternative than your run-of-the-mill grocery bag or a thong made out of sanitary napkins and scotch tape. Also, they’re cheaper than regular crotch cloth, so I can buy a year’s supply of adult diapers from Wal-Mart and still have money for the laxatives I use to study (clear bowels, clear mind)! It just makes fiscal sense.

BY GILLIAN GOLDEN But there’s more! The leading brand of adult diapers, Depends, has a new line of adult diapers designed for the active young woman or man—Depends Silhouette Adult Diapers. This line of adult diapers is designed to fit closely to your body, so now I no longer have to wear those ol’ JNCO jeans from my grunge years while I wear my diaper. Now I can wear my leggings without fear that my diaper lines will show! And as we all know, dealing with diaper lines is a major problem for babies and diaper-wearing adults alike. Also, it adds an element of surprise in the boudoir for my gentlemen lovers who have a baby fetish. Finally, I wear adult diapers because I like how they make me feel—pretty goddamn hot. And who doesn’t want to feel hot, without worrying that you’ll shit your pants?

American Heroes: Tom Parsons N

BY GARGOYLE TRUE STORIES DEPARTMENT

o longer am I simply Tom Parsons, today I am a hero, today I am a modern Thomas Jeﬀerson, today I pitched a tent in class for America. As the professor lectured, my mind began to drift to that gorgeous red, white, and I almost blew, but I turned my mind’s eye to paintings of Martha Washington and maintained full mast. The fine citizen sitting next to me was the first to notice my pride and was duly impressed. With a wink and a smile she passed me a note with her number and voting history. Soon the entire class began to notice and, although I cannot explain it, began to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner”. Certainly, Calc II will never be the same. As soon as I left class I was approached by a representative from a certain news corporation (name withheld for legal reasons) with an oﬀer to be the host for a new segment they’re pitching as “Straight Six at Six”, which will debunk six myths about Americans. I thanked him, but told him that I’d prefer to target a more relevant demographic and was considering starting a website or something of the sort. I understand that what I did was inspiring, but I don’t want anyone to blow me out of proportion. So far the local response has been overwhelmingly positive. Take, for example, this email I received from my calculus professor: From: Professor Rosenstein Subject: Courage I have been a professor here for 35 years and never before have I seen such a bold display of Patriotism. I’m talking capital ‘P’ Patriotism. You raised your flagprint pants to new heights and even tested their tear strength, but as you know, we Americans may bulge, but never break! I appreciate a metaphor and today you indeed became the unwavering pole that supports our national pride. I had been thinking about joining the armed services or even the peace corp following graduation, but they seem distant while I, personally, can sport a boner right here in America, for America. I believe that we all need to stand up in one way or another for our country and after this I’m considering writing a book or trying motivational speaking. Before today I was just a regular college student, unsure of his future, but with the talent I discovered today, I feel like the world is my fleshlight!

“Mondays” Fall 2012

UHS WebMD: To Your Health! Medical Advice by Telegram

WEB MD AT

Games and Puzzles Page Osmosis Jones on YouTube Bitcoin Pharmacy The 13 Scheduling Trials Emergency/Call Mom

Featured questions answered by experts for UM students and Other UHS Patients

Q: Symptoms- painful black swellings on lymph nodes, high fever, delirium, recently bitten by a rat A: Strep Q: Symptoms- can’t maintain an erection A: Strep Q: Symptoms- coughing up blood, night sweats, high fever A: Strep

Strep Strep Strep Strep Strep Strep AIDS Strep Strep Strep

Q: Symptoms- Arm pain, nausea, shortness of breath A: Strep Q: Symptoms- Asthma attack A: Strep, definitely Q: Symptoms- painful urination, blisters on genitals A: Strep, but maybe mono. We’ll test you for both just in case. Q: Symptoms- sprained ankle A: Strep Q: Symptoms- sore throat, slight fever A: Sounds serious. Have you been tested for AIDS?

From The Archives!

? Ask Dr. Beakman Dr. Beakman, I am afraid of the postal service and everything they carry. How can I overcome my crippling fear of bacteria? - Dennis H. Dear Dennis, The best way to overcome any fear is to confront it. Throw everything you own into a Panera dumpster then drive straight until you can’t understand the local accent. Adopt a pseudo-identity, acclimate, and enjoy your new life. Be sure to sanitize everything with antimicrobial soap and take a daily vitamin to mitigate your useless immune system. Don’t forget to stay in touch!

ustin was just like any other 20 year old trying to find his place in the boregasm that was the 1990s. After his shift at the juice bar inside the local mall, he decided to check out the Bean There, Downloaded That internet-café between the Footlocker and the Radio Shack before heading home. For just a couple bucks he got a gnarly cup of joe and 30 minutes of surfing time on the world wide web. He logged into his AOL e-mail account and eagerly awaited the sweet chime of “You got mail!” for about 4 minutes. Although it had been only 3 days since he last checked his e-mail, he was worried that he was becoming an internet addict, alas, he was greeted with two new electronic mails and silently exclaimed “Jackpot!” The first was from the Home Improvement Tool Timers© oﬃcial fan club e-mail list and the other from his buddy Dylan. “Hey dudez, you totally gotta check out this killer music fest in Seattle! It’s called Jammapalooza and it’s gonna be the greatest funk-rock, grunge, college-rock, indie, pop-punk, shoegaze, ska, rap-metal, trip-hop, blues-rock, gangsta rap, europop, house, and lo-fi festival ever! I have wanted to go for years, but I have not been able to make the trek without any wheels, but now I got a sick new Jeep with a roll-cage and it would be bombin’ if I could get some help paying for these crazy $1.10 dollar fuel prices. Plus we could all get a group discount from my dealer Jimbo on E-tabs! Message me back!” “Hey Dawg,” Justin began to type in response, “I totally can’t go to this festival cuz’ it sounds really lame. I have better things to spend my time doing like watching 7th Heaven with my mom! Plus I’m trying to save up my money to buy stock from Apple and other boring stuﬀ... Psyche! This sounds hella rad! I’ll totally go with you!”

“Look at those American Pie-looking meatheads!” Dylan remarked before chugging an entire bottle of Zima. Fast forward a few days, and Dylan is pulling his Jeep up Justin’s driveway while blasting Snoop Dogg and shaking his dreadlocks like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Justin emerges from his house sporting overalls with only one button clasped, a t-shirt with a large Tommy Hilfiger logo, hair parted down the middle, buzzed around the sides, and large wire frame glasses. “I am stoked as hell for this fest!” Justin exclaims as the power seat belt embraces his body. “Yeah, bro, rumor has it Tony Hawk is gonna be there. How sick would that be!?” As they started the drive, Dylan started flipping through his FM presets: a speech by Bill Clinton…that Celine Dion Titanic song …”Yawn!”, Justin interjected as he popped in a mixtape containing a mixture of choice songs ripped from the radio and Adam Sandler’s “best of ”

BY J.J. LUNDY stand-up comedy. “You know what, sometimes I think nothing is going to get me through this semi-charmed kind of life” Justin lamented as he stared out of the car window. “You know what will cheer you up?” Dylan began, “Let me play you some of my sister’s music.” He opened his glove compartment and reached for a cassette, popped it in, and cranked up the volume; the song was “Barbie Girl” by Aqua. As Justin was ready to put his hands around his ears, Dylan was quick to reassure him that the album was an acquired taste and he should give it a chance. “Okay, but FYI, you’re gonna have to buy me a Fruitopia if you want me to listen to this crud.”

“Are you sure about that? Charizard is a really rare card.” Kurt said. After a grueling 8-hour car-ride and 5 packs of Lunchables, they arrived near their hostel, pulling into the parking structure and singing along to “Barbie Girl” in tandem. They caught the attention of two female fellow fest-goers. One was dressed like a go-go raver with a pacifier necklace, belly tank top, oversized blue cargo pants, and Kool-Aid hair highlights. The other looked pretty goth with her extra-large Marilyn Manson tee, black platform shoes, and nose piercing. “What is up, dude-ettes!” Dylan projected without hesitation. “My name is Dylan, and this is my best bud Justin, would you be interested in grabbing a bite to eat?” “I’m Amber, and this is my friend Jessica. We were going to get some sushi if you want to join.” The goth girl asked ever-sounenthusiastically and with an expressionless stare. “Umm…maybe…but isn’t sushi, like, raw fish? I heard about it in a ‘zine, but it sounds pretty bogus if you’re askin’ this dude, ha ha. How about somewhere else?” “You either want sushi, or you don’t.” Amber said with a mix of boredom and impatience. “Let’s go, Jessica, let’s not waste time on these simpleton creeps who probably don’t even know what Aphex Twin is.” Jessica flashed a sympathetic peace sign before her friend yanked her arm. “Way to go man, ya frickin’ blew it!” Justin exclaimed angrily as he was just about to kick the curb, only stopping as he remembered that he was wearing Birkenstocks. “Listen man,” Dylan said reassuringly, “what’s the use of scoring with babes if you’re going to be hurling all night from sick-nasty fish? And I don’t mean the good kind of sick-nasty. Let’s just go to Mickey D’s and get us two McJordan specials. Maybe we can even start a collection of Space Jam toys.”

As they were eating at a nearby McDonalds, they spied a disheveled group of men walk through the door--it was Nirvana! Before they could even order, Justin and Dylan got up from their seats and ambushed the band like a pair of dirty smack addicts. “Kurt Cobain, man, I love your music so much! Can you autograph my…” Justin said as he frantically reached in all his overall pockets to find something for the idolized front man to put his signature on. His fingers felt something, the perfect something: Justin’s first edition holo-foil Charizard card. “Are you sure about that? Charizard is a really rare card.” said Kurt. “Yeah,” drummer Dave Grohl chimed in, “I’ve bought, like, five packs and the best I ever got was a Chansey. You should keep that card in mint condition.” “How about instead of an autograph, we trade you backstage passes to Jammapalooza for the Charizard card so you guys can hang with us. Maybe we can have a Pokémon battle!” bassist Krist Novoselic added.

This magical decade wasn’t just about wearing baggy flannel or worrying about the dangers of airbags.

“Hey.” Amber muttered while staring blankly into Dylan’s eyes. “Sup?” Dylan replied. “That was pretty gutsy what you did on stage,” Amber said with as little emotion as possible. “And you’re right, those guys we were hanging out with were total jerks.” Jessica added, “They seriously thought they could request a House DJ to play “The Macarena.” As if !” “Don’t get me wrong, we still think you’re creeps, but we like creeps,” Amber said. “If you’re ever in town before Y2K turns the Earth into a melting mass of technological misery and robotic terror, fax me and maybe we can get a coﬀee at this new indie coﬀee place called Starbucks. But don’t call it a date, those are for mindless sheeple.” On that day, Jason and Dylan realized what the 90s were all about. This magical decade wasn’t just about wearing baggy flannel or worrying about the dangers of airbags, but instead it was a collection of memorable experiences that could only be made possible by the trends and all-around vibes of the era. So next time you crack open an expired pack of Dunkaroos or go in-line rollerblading near a beach, think of the Generation Y heroes who made it all possible for you.

Justin and Dylan were crazy excited. They traded the card with no hesitation and made their way to the festival grounds so they could have the most bitchin’ time of their lives. It felt exhilarating making their way past all the fanny pack wearing dweebs waiting in the general admission line. They flashed their passes to the bouncers and made their way into the musician lounge, sponsored by Surge soda. The Red Hot Chili Peppers were just finishing a 15-minute bass solo on stage when Dylan looked in the front row of the audience and saw Amber and Jessica with two other guys. “Look at those American Pie-looking meatheads!” Dylan remarked before chugging an entire bottle of Zima. “You know what’ll help you get over those girls, Justin? Watch this.” He said as he stumbled to the microphone on stage. The Red Hot Chili Peppers were offstage putting on their trademark “socks on cocks” for the encore, so Dylan knew he had a few precious seconds to scream something into the microphone. “Hey Jessica and Amber”, he said with a mocking tone “Didn’t think we were worth getting food with, huh? Think you’re “the shiznit”, huh? I got four words for ya: Talk. To. The. Hand. While you’re hanging with those Yuppie nobodies, we’re in the VIP sippin’ on gin and juice.” Before the bouncers were able to tackle Dylan and get him off the stage, there was a bright flash of light in the sky that caused everyone to immediately glance up; it was Halley’s Comet completing its 75-year orbit around Earth! Amidst all the awe that swept over the entire Jammapallooza crowd, Dylan and Justin quickly ran off stage. “Holy smokes, that was a close one!” Justin remarked while gasping for breath. “You almost got totally creamed! If that comet didn’t come you would have been toast for sure.” “I know, I know. But this comet has gotta be a sign. I need to be with her. After all, she’s my wonder wall.” Dylan said with conviction. Before they knew it, Amber and Jessica were approaching them.

Spring/Summer 2013

To Catch A Predator Drone C

hris Hansen sighed and sipped his coffee. Today’s case was going to be a rough one. They’d been working the bastard for months. They set the trap and it took maybe a week before they had a bite. The decoy had done her job perfectly and everything was in place. Now it was just a matter of springing the trap. It was never easy. Yes, it helped keep dangerous people off the streets, but it was never easy coming face to face with evil like that. They had set up shop in a small village near the Pakistani border. From the outside, it looked like a standard Islamic extremist cell: some goats out front, some radical Islamic literature on the coffee table. Typical stuff. In actuality, they had rigged the house full of hidden cameras and had an entire camera crew stationed in the backyard. The NBC employee who had been posing as a senior Al-Qaeda operative was in full costume. Now it was time to play the waiting game. The roar of airplane engines was heard overhead. Chris finished the rest of his coffee. Showtime. The decoy greeted the predator drone at the door. Chris heard every word. “Hi, are you unmannedaircraft47?” “Yeah. You must be nineelevenrules.” “Yeah. Come on in.” There was a pause. The engines roared louder as the plane broke through the front of the house. Drywall fell everywhere as Chris smiled to himself. “He’s in. Good” He watched on the hidden camera as the decoy moved to the coffee machine, brushing off debris. “Do you want some coffee?” asked the decoy. “No thanks,” said the drone, “I’m Mormon.” “Oh, right. I forgot”. “So, can I kill you now?” said the drone excitedly. “Yeah, let me just wash up real quick. Gotta be ready for those virgins, right?” The drone and the decoy shared a moment of awkward laughter, as the decoy headed to the back. The drone sat awkwardly at the counter, browsing through some of the radical Islamic literature. He was too focused to notice Chris walking in the room. They were practically on top of each other before chris spoke up. “What are you doing here?” The drone panicked and jetted backwards. “Who are you?” “I’m Chris Hansen, with Dateline NBC’s To Catch a Predator Drone. What’re you doing here?” “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I just came here to meet someone” “Who?” “Just someone I met online” “A terrorist?” “Uhm, I don’t know. Not necessarily.” “And what were you going to do?” “Just carry out some surveillance. Maybe bring them in for legal questioning.” Chris sighed, “You weren’t going to kill them?” The drone panicked. “No...I mean...No!”

BY ROSS WARMAN

Chris adjusted the papers in his hands, pulling out one from the middle of the stack. “So this isn’t a chat log between you and our decoy?” “No.” “September 28th, 2012. unmannedaircraft47 says ‘you’re going to be so dead.’” “That’s...that’s out of context.” the drone stammered. “Then what is the context?” “I...I...” “December 14th, 2012. unmannedaircraft47 says ‘Can’t wait to kill you lol <3’. Care to explain that?” “Look, you don’t understand!” the drone whined. “All I understand is that you came here to kill what you thought was a terrorist. That ‘terrorist’ was actually a decoy hired by NBC. She’s just a twelve-year-old girl! You nearly killed a twelve year old girl!” Chris had the drone on the ropes. It was ready to crack. He could see it in the drone’s movements. The way he rocked back and forth. The way he exposed his missiles. The way it armed the aforementioned missles and pointed them directly at him. The way“You’re going to shoot me, aren’t you?” “Yup.” “Shit.” Chris sighed and braced for his impending death. Maybe he should have thought this show through better…

Causes and Pontifex Coming to FOX this Spring!

Thaddeus (Tad) Burnackle is just a typical 16 year old American teenager, trying to make his way through high school; he has to worry about passing trigonometry, getting his chores done on time, and…being the spiritual leader of 1 billion Catholics?? After Benedict XVI resigns, a mix up with the papal ballots means that as soon as Tad graduates, he’s poised to be the new Pope! Follow the weekly adventures of Tad and his two best friends: the quirky, free spirit Cindy Rogers and the wisecracking Jew Theo Lefkowitz, as they make their way through the heartbreaks, parties, and growing pains of high school, all while Tad learns to be the holiest man in the world. Featuring Chevy Chase as the goofy, laid-back retiree Benedict XVI, always ready to oﬀer Tad advice or a couple sips of Communion Wine. Only on FOX. Sundays 7:00 PM

Spring 2013

And So, To Rise Higher, We Cast Off Dead Weight

A collection of Senior farewells

Natalie Voss - Secretary/Top Mama It was the first day of classes my freshman year. I was sitting on a bench in Lorch Hall, feeling eager and anxious. On the bench next to me was a bright purple magazine, the summer 2008 edition of the Gargoyle. By the time I finished it, I knew I’d found my people. This group of misfits and weirdos has been my dysfunctional family for five years now. They have been with me through many of my college experiences, including the time I drank an entire bottle of wine and assumed I couldn’t get a hangover because wine is made from grapes. Boy was I wrong about that one. Thanks, old Gargoyle, for taking me under your wing and pushing me to live (and also to sit on the couch, talk, and play games). I will also fondly remember the summer living by Garg House wherein I became a Game of Thrones fanatic, helped catch a mouse at a party, and watched the never-ending circus that was Peter, Rob, and Sean. The Gargoyle has provided me with roommates (hi Nikita, lol omg), lifelong friends, and possibly food poisoning. Though come to think of it, that may have been the day old sushi. Thanks for letting me mom you, Gargoyle, and for the many, many memories. Love you always.

Michael Stephens - “Lead” Writer The night of my first Gargoyle meeting happened to also be the night of my first college party: a Garg party called Ludacrismas, which was exactly what it sounds like. That evening, I got drunker than I had ever been (a distinction quickly usurped by every subsequent Garg party I attended) and puked on the then-Editor-in-Chief’s porch. My only clear memory of the night is being AMAZED that though I was in this vulnerable position at a college party, nobody was stealing my wallet. The Gargoyle may not have stolen my wallet, but here are some things it did steal over the years: my virginity (indirectly), much of my social anxiety (directly), the majority of my underclassman time, and self-disappointment-inducingly little of my upperclassman time. It’s without a doubt been the single biggest influence on the course of my college career and I wouldn’t have it any other way. The Gargoyle deserves all my thanks for putting me where I am today (i.e. about to be a filthy homeless vagabond), and it also deserves an apology for my contributions slackening over the past two years. But on the bright side, at least that allowed me to claim the coveted title of Lead Writer.

Sam Trochio - Buisness Manager I spent 4 years slowly becoming a soul-suckingbusiness-connoisseur-alcoholic alongside these half aborted Garg babies, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Its been real, TrochioDrift

Kat Tomchuck - Baking Mistress There is no good reason as to why I joined the Gargoyle. I hate writing and can’t draw for shit. Any flat form of art is just beyond me. I also can’t write a resume without sounding self deprecating, so it didn’t really boost that either. But it wasn’t any of that I was drawn to. But the people on the Gargoyle were all so ridiculous and wonderful that I knew I had to find a way to belong there. So I became the baking mistress and threw some of the most costumed bake sales Angell Hall has ever seen. I may not have written much, but damn did we make some tour groups uncomfortable. I’d say I am really going to miss the Gargoyle, but I know I’ll never get off the damn e-mail list so I can’t. In the end, it was one of the most significant parts of my college experience and I can only hope the rest of my life will have me surrounded with half so much talent and whimsy.

Allison Hawkins - Writer/Aspiring Pilot I came into a Gargoyle meeting for the first time when I was but a freshman. After a meeting or two, I realized that these hilarious but sometimes obnoxious people scared me half to death, and I rarely ventured back.Yet I couldn’t help keeping up with emails, which honestly looked more like spam most of time. Unlike actual spam emails, though, these made me laugh. And so I helped out in little ways while I lurked on the email list. Distributing magazines, helping man bake sales or festifall tables, and finally writing for the blog, which made me feel pretty safe since few people read it. But there’s something that the Gargoyle has given me besides a dash of self-confidence and the realization that I’m not all that funny. I don’t exactly know what it is yet, but I’ll get back to you when I do. I’m sure it’s a good thing. Until then, I can only wish the magazine and its staff the best, because they deserve it.

Max Smouha - Art Director/Intellectual Degenerate I’m not leaving. Not yet. December. I got better at drawing cause I did the art director of the Gargoyle. I also made 3 friends there. Not great friends, but we talk sometimes. Do you care? No. And neither do I.

(Michael McCrindle - Layout Wizard)

Disney and Star Wars

Han Solo Fricked That He Still Can’t Say Fuck

isney’s acquisition of the Star Wars franchise is quickly fading into irrelevance, but Garg alum Lawrence Kasdan is slated to produce and write the first three films, and consequently, we would like to pitch a few crossovers in hopes that he finds this issue in a trash can or opium den. Consider the possibilities that might arise from such a filthy miscegenation of these two entertainment giants, that is, as long as you cap your imagination at a PG rating. Pirates of the Galaxy Han Solo is forced to smuggle a crate of goods across the galaxy with Jack Sparrow--who will outwit the other first? Meanwhile, a band of bounty hunters as well as the entire British Navy are hot on their trail. Toy Story: Anakin Skywalker Before Anakin was building podracers and droids for his mother, he had a few inanimate toys of his own. Holes 2: Spice Holes Miscreant jedi youth Stanley Yellbass is sent to the Tatooine desert camp “Reno” to learn respect under the draconian watch of the Warden. Reformation takes place by day as the criminal youths are forced to dig out sarlaccs with rusty lightsabers. That is, until Stanley happens upon a rich vein of Spice and spends a terrifying 36 hours in a nightmarish S-hole. What journey awaits the adolescents as they sink into the hellish dreamscape of dissociative anesthetics? Finding Nemo in Naboo Marlin and Dory are living a happy life with Marlin’s son Nemo as they happily await a new batch of eggs. Tragedy strikes when a predator of the sea eats all of the new eggs and knocks Marlin unconscious, leaving Dory and Nemo nowhere to be found in a fashion eerily similar to the original movie. Now Marlin must travel to Naboo and team up with Jar Jar Binks to find his son. Winnie the Pooh Fett Winnie the Pooh recruits Boba Fett to find some good honey. The bee hive is stuck in a particularly high tree so Boba Fett must use his jet pack…only to find the honey is already gone. Could it be the work of the terrible heﬀalump?

Mulan: Jedi Academy She manages to fool even the Jedi Council that she is a man even though she doesn’t need to. Amidala in Arabia Queen Amidala’s ship is compromised and forced to land on a markedly stereotyped Arabian world. She spends the next week avoiding Aladin’s advances until he is finally put in jail for keeping Genie in a lamp prison. The Emperor’s New Moods Emperor Palpatine is an ostensibly selfish youth trying to impress his peers and oversee the prom committee, all while adjusting to his new MAOI prescription. Adventure begins at the same time as his first dissociative fugue. The Adventures of Huck Windu Samuel L. Jackson shakes his head for an hour and a half with the occasional flashback to his life as an innocent white boy.

B Y P RO L E S T E P H E N S

t was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen—with baseball bats and hammers. Sentient, ultraviolent clocks had been but one of the side effects of the Atomic Wars that left the world divided into three superstates: Oceania, Eurasia, and Westeros. Winston “Smitty” Smith lived in the capital city of Oceania, Landstrip Two, where he worked for the Ministry of Tooth falsifying dental records. Smitty found himself sitting at his desk, editing the record of a man named Slyme to say that he had had been required to wear large, uncomfortable orthodontic headgear to his senior prom. Smitty did this not to embarrass Slyme, but because Slyme was an enperson: a person who formerly did not exist, but suddenly came into being one day because the Faction desired it. People simply appeared, always during the day. Your name was added to the registers, every record of everything you had never done was created, your one-time nonexistence was acknowledged and then remembered. And if you were Slyme, you spent prom night masturbating alone in the dark because of the unwieldy metal clusterfuck sticking out of your face. “Lo, kinsman Smith! How dost thou fare? It hath been near a fortnight since last I laid eyes upon thee!” Smitty turned to see that his colleague, Amplecock, had appeared at his cubicle. Amplecock held in his hand a coffee mug, upon which were written the three slogans of the Faction: CRACK IS WHACK DOPE IS DOPE HUFFING PAINT IS ONLY OKAY SOMETIMES “Amplecock, why are you talking like that?” Smitty asked, marginally concerned. “Ah, thou art yet a knave? ‘Tis Oldspeak that poureth from mine mouth!” Amplecock explained, “Why, ‘tis the official language of Oceania! For what purpose dost thou proceed with thine inferior speech?” “Oh, well, I just can’t get the hang of Oldspeak, I guess. Never could figure out how to pronounce ‘æ’ anyways,” Smitty replied. He had, of course, heard of Oldspeak, the Faction’s initiative to revert the English language to its original state. Its purpose, Smitty figured, was either to alter people’s very mode of thought or to increase the social acceptability of renaissance festivals. Either way, it was a little too Hamlet and not enough Lion King for his tastes. “Verily, hast thou laid thine eyes upon yonder maiden?” Amplecock pointed to a woman in the corner of the room, “Is not her form a beauteous sight to beholdeth? And lo, more bountiful even than her beauty is her love for the Faction, for she may list herself among the ranks of ye olde Senior Pro-Sex League!” Smitty grimaced. He found the Senior Pro-Sex League’s fervent worship of the Faction’s doctrine almost as disgusting as their plague-mask-ridden sexual masquerades. Plus, they were often undercover agents of the Fashion Police: the Faction’s secret police force tasked with covertly identifying radically dressed “fashion degenerates” and turning them in for wardrobe rehabilitation.

And yet, Smitty couldn’t help but approach this woman when, despite having never met him in her life, she dropped a piece of paper marked “I <3 you” on his desk. He marched across the office to her cubicle, passing by the room’s phonopanel—an electronic device, installed in every public and private space, that allowed citizens to watch and hear everything their government was doing at any given moment. Like all phonopanels, it was inexplicably inscribed with the caption “You Are Watching Little Sister,” a design quirk whose inception gave To Catch A Predator absolutely unreal ratings boosts. “What’s the meaning of this?” Smitty demanded as he arrived at her cubicle. “I’ve never even spoken to you before, and you’re telling me you love me. Do you have me confused with Justin Bieber?” “Do you want to go have sex?” She asked abruptly. “I guess,” Smitty sighed. “Okay, but we have to go somewhere where there aren’t phonopanels.” “What? Why not?” “Have you ever tried having sex while listening to the sounds of a joint committee meeting? Huge turnoff.” Thus began a several-month-long illicit relationship between Smitty and the woman, Julia. Over the course of the relationship, they befriended the Inner Faction member O’Brother, who soon revealed himself to be a secret enemy of the Faction. He proved this by exposing them to an ancient revolutionary DVD, thought to exist only in legend and rumor, that outlined the steps necessary to bring the Faction’s rule and the Fashion Police’s tyranny to an end: Season 1 of “RuPaul’s Drag Race.” Unfortunately, in a proto-Shyamalonian twist, O’Brother revealed that he was actually an undercover member of the Fashion Police the entire time. And Smitty and Julia, poor, fate-stricken fools that they were, had made the tragic mistake of wearing Bumpits in his presence. They were separated at once, and Smitty was hauled in to the Ministry of Shove to be hassled for his crime. “So, how exactly do you punish fashion criminals at the Ministry of Shove?” Smitty asked his captor, “Do you just, you know, shove me around a bunch?” “Normally, yes,” O’Brother replied stoically, “But a crime as heinous as yours must be punished in kind; you must be subjected to crimes against fashion and taste even worse than your own. You’re going to Room 404.” “What’s in Room 404?” Smitty asked as his stomach sank. “The worst thing in the world: viral videos on a loop forever. Today you’ll enjoy three hundred backwoods high schools’ renditions of the Harlem Shake.” Smitty screamed, pleaded, and offered O’Brother the choice between his firstborn daughter or free Doritos for a year as a bribe, but it was all to no avail. He was subjected to the tortures of Room 404 all the same. And though he remained there only two hours, that was all it took before he was rendered certifiably insane. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved the Harlem Shake. 21

A Review of the Pita Pit on East U. I

felt a weight in my hand, pulling me back. My daughter’s strength had begun to wane, she could barely keep pace. I gripped her hand in mine, urging her forward. Her cracked lips trembled, “Poppa,” she gasped, “I’m thirsty...” “Yes Jane, me too. I’m sure there’s a town over this next ridge,” I lied. As if I was going to drink some month-old stillwater from a kiddie pool. I needed a Mango Tango smoothie from Pita Pit. Images of the Chicken Caesar wrap danced through my mind, taunting me. I could see my dead wife laughing through bites of a Spicy Black Bean pita. She never did care for the non-vegetarian options. But those were simpler times, before the war. My mouth began to water and I reprimanded myself. This was no time to fantasize, much less to waste any moisture. It could be weeks before I found any clean water. I heard Jane scream and turned my head like someone had said “half-oﬀ all signature pitas”. “Poppa, there it is! The town!” I gazed in the direction her hand pointed, squinting and hoping for any sign of salvation. Were those toppings or the faint trace of a skyline? We hurried forward towards the prospect of either.

Soon it became clear that we were approaching what was once civilization. But where were we? A tarnished sign came into view, punctuated by gunshots, “We...me to A.n /.bo.” We entered the town, Jane smiling and kicking rocks, me pouring over a national list of Pita Pit locations. Could this be Ann Arbor? I made a silent prayer and gritted my teeth. I saw a street sign for “University Ave.” The pieces began to match and I felt that I was close to the Pit. “Look, a grocery store! We’re saved!” “Shut up,” I murmured, letting go of Jane’s hand. A neon reflection flitted across a broken windshield and my heart nearly burst. Was that it? I began to sprint, checking every street, every sign. Suddenly I was blinded by neon green. I wiped the ash from my eyes, blinking, hoping I hadn’t gone crazy. I heard my name in the distance, but all I could do was whimper... “Pita... Pit?” I pushed open the door and stumbled inside. An angel spoke, “Welcome to Pita Pit, you look absolutely famished! What can I get for you?” “Chicken... Craze,” I stammered, and began to cry.

I Have My Own Feelings, Too Dear Diary, I think about my feelings. But there are also times when I don’t want to. You see, I have my own feelings, too. Complicated feelings that come from inside. Inside of me. I wake up and have a coffee, just like you. I have another cup of coffee and maybe two or three cigarettes. If my bong is nearby sometimes I will smoke it as well. I’m naked. It’s maybe nine in the morning. I spilled something on my clock once so I guess that it’s 9 in the morning. I should go to work. Yikes! I forgot to clean my bong for a month. Ouch! When I get to work I’m extra confused because it’s not nine in the morning. But it’s also because I like my job only two or three days a week, and that’s just a lot of tough, emotional burlap to chew through. I’ve been gainfully employed at the same establishment for nearly 10 months now. Then again, employed is a strong word, and since last week there’s a man at my desk who does all my work for me. Hold on, I think my car is getting towed. Just kidding, I don’t have a car. This is supposed to be about my feelings. Sorry. Like I said, sometimes I don’t like to think about them. I do like to think about them when I am happy. For example, today I was thinking about how last week I lost my calculator and then found it. Good times. Oh and I also bought socks without holes! How ‘bout monkey bars? Weren’t those just the days! One time I went out to recess and the whole play-structure was taped off. Turns out somebody ran into a pole so hard that they passed out. Hilarious! The worst kind of days are when you have a lot of feelings to think about and miss your dentist appointment, because then your teeth have feelings, too. That doesn’t happen much these days, what with my dentist telling me he doesn’t like my teeth. That was hard to hear. Definitely a day when I didn’t want to think about my feelings. Those days can get pretty rough and I forget to touch things, but then I remember that it’s okay to touch some things. But really there are all kinds of things to do on weird days. Today I set up a server. Have you ever done that? You should try it sometime. Also it’s good to keep a diary so you don’t say everything out loud, like “help, I am prone to petty theft,” or “I dream of hiding in a cavernous well.” Well this has been fun, diary, but my roommates’ party is a little too happening and I think I am nervous. Maybe I will talk about this feeling, perhaps they have advice. About being nervous, that is. Or something else, that might be good, too. Shit. Love, Best Regards, Hey Me

The Fashion Pervert’s Fashion Reviews Spotted: Cute Coed Opens the Curtains to Style Hill and Washtenaw - This beaut was simply drying oﬀ after a shower and had no idea how fashionable she was! Thrifty AND practical, her micro-fiber towel is not only absorbent, but also a steal at $10 from target (or the featured towel, $100 reserve on my ebay store -- AnHonestMan84). The lovely model featured knows how to make less become more when it comes to looking good and facebook privacy settings! Thanks, and as always, “it would look better on my floor” -- F.P. Correction/Apology: I would like to apologize if anyone mistook my comments on last week’s post [True Love from Afar; True Love in the Stall] as my critique of “Jennifer’s” extremely plaid shirt was only a comment on the outfit and not a threat, Jennifer.

Somewhere to Visit: The Wrestling Center “The landscape is gray and desolate. Years of disorder have left it empty save for hopelessness and folding chairs. Welcome to the Wrestling Center. I would liken it to the Korean DMZ, but exactly the opposite. Barbarians roam the land preying on the weak, suplexing the frail. With my own eyes I saw a man pile-driven into a Pringles can. What’s that? You say that’s impossible. Then come with me on a tour of this forsaken place and learn just what the Wrestling Center holds.” I was enjoying a cup of lukewarm coffee and a biscuit with some fellow gentleman in the 7-Eleven lounge, talking of times past, adventures had, and weights lifted when I first heard the tale of the wrestling center. I myself wouldn’t venture into its depths until some years later, and with great reluctance as you will soon understand. Carl Willow, a man with great calves, began to soliloquize about the first wrestlers, those of Greco-Roman heritage, those hard-bodied conquerors of yore. He gesticulated wildly, splashing coffee on an employee, extolling the socio-political metaphors of the knee-lock, begging us to consider how the People’s Elbow is the modern manifestation of neo-marxism. “What’s more, the trials and tribulations such champions must have faced in their own time. They were the mighty, but were they free to roam, to experience the pleasures of the world? Nay, wealthier men kept them enslaved to entertain the masses. The thought of those rubenesque forms, bound by iron, by leather...” He trailed off looking wistfully into his slushie, then began again with a cool demeanor. “I suppose you fellows remember that I once did make a run to the Wrestling Center, that awful place.” Through mouthfuls of Chex Mix and Doritos he began to regale us with dystopic visions of another world, a world in which one must, or what’s more, needs to wrestle...

Spring/Summer 2013