Volume 107 Number 2 by Gargoyle Humor Magazine

Table of Contents 1. #Blessed 2. This Page 3. That Page Volume CV, Number 2 Winter 2015

S TA F F

Nico Pigg . . . . . . . . . . . . . Clean Shaven Daphine Zhao . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Happy Eyes Caleb Nusbaum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Good Egg E.A. Chavis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . First Snow

4. May Ur Days Be Merry 5. And Ur Nights Too 6. The Vault Creaks Open 7. Instant Classic 8. Cinematic Genius

Neal Jackson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pre Lubricated

9. Not Till You’re Older

Alex Boscolo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cool Breeze

10. Quantum Leap

Emily Bromberg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Early Registration Luke Collard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Empty Bathroom Jenny Ghose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Old Book Smell Meredith Gilbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Al Dente Sydney Glide . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Roommates Gone Ellen James . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Last Slice Of ‘Za Andrew Keating . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1st Date Fuck Sarah Kimmel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Extra Gram Jeremy Kruman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Easy GSI Max Kuang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Butt Play Ben Leigh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hot Lab Partner James Mackin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Not Too Sweet Chris Seeman . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fresh Sheets Simone Shemshideni . . . . . . . . . Diplomatic Immunity Akash Ramanujam . . . . . . . . . No IClicker Question Fiona Tien . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Short Chapter 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

11. Throwin’ It Way Back 12. Heaven And Hell

A VERY MONSANTO CHRISTMAS

“I

owa is God’s country, if you ask me,” says my waitress as she pours me another cup of coffee. She’s prone to declarative statements like this. People around here don’t see a lot of gray areas.

I’ve already made two mistakes this morning. The first was waking up at 11 a.m.: too early to sleep through the hangover, too late to enjoy the Hampton Inn continental breakfast. The second mistake was talking to a human being. “Tell me when,” she says. She’s about 22, working her way through cosmetology school. She assures me that’s “the one about hair, not planets.” “When!” I exclaim, a bit too loud, forcing the kind of congenial, unnatural smile people make out here in ‘God’s country.’ My head is still pounding. I’ve come here to cover the Monsanto Christmas event at their Midwestern headquarters in Prescott County, Iowa. My editor said I could either cover this or write a fluff piece about a middle-school basketball player with cancer. I was going to go with the cancer kid, but then he died. “You sure you don’t want any cream or sugar?” “No,” I gesture toward my glass, “but you wouldn’t be able to uh, ‘Irish’ this one up, if you catch my drift.” She shoots me the first dirty look I’ve seen all day, which is honestly pretty refreshing. “Nobody serves alcohol on Sunday. It’s against the law in this county.” God’s country, my ass. Monsanto’s headquarters are located on a large plateau about 33 minutes out of town. Or at least that’s what the concierge at the Hampton Inn told me. I’d been driving about 15 minutes when the snow started to fall. Five minutes later, the visibility got really bad. I squinted to see the road ahead of me as kept driving into the winter night, with only a crummy rental car heater and a flask of whiskey to keep me warm. As I turned a tight corner, I felt my car slide out from the road underneath it. I swerved, skidded and fishtailed across both lanes, feathering the breaks to regain control. I slid to a stop on the shoulder of the road. I breathed a sigh of relief. A second longer sliding around on that road and I would have started bargaining with my creator. Both Him and me know a life in service to God is a promise I can’t keep. My moment of relief was cut short when I saw the flashing lights in my rear-view mirror. I heard sirens as the vehicle approached. I was already on the side of the road, so making a big show of pulling me over was sort of overkill. The cop pulled his car over behind mine and stepped out. He walked over to my car and knocked on the window. I rolled it down. “Good evening sir, quite a show you just put on there.” “Sorry, officer. Just slid a bit out of control is all. Not used to driving in these kind of conditions, you know?” The officer narrowed his eyes. “These are the only conditions we got around here, boy. Where’d you say you were from again?” “New Jersey,” I responded. “What, they don’t get snow up in fancy New Jersey, boy? Too good for it?” I was starting to get irritated. Who did this redneck think he was, calling me “boy?” “Officer, why did you pull me over?” I ask, exasperated. “Maybe they do things different out in hoity-toity New Jersey, but around these parts I ask the questions.” We sat in silence for a few moments.

“Well, aren’t you gonna say something, boy?” he asked. “I was waiting for you to ask a question.” “That was the question. Step out of the vehicle, boy.” I obeyed, increasingly confused by the situation. The officer searched my car, finding my flask. He took a long sip out of it. “Were you drinking this while driving, boy?” “No,” I lied. He didn’t believe me. “Alright, you’re coming with me, boy,” he snapped, pinning me against my car. As he cuffed my hands, I heard a screech from the tree line about ten feet from the roadside. The officer paused, a look of confusion on his big, dumb face. The screech came again, this time closer and higher pitched. The screech was haunting, neither human nor animal, almost mechanical. The officer drew his weapon. “You stay here boy,” he said. “I’m gonna go take a look-see.” The officer walked up to the treeline and stepped into the forest. The leaves rustled as he trudged through the slushy mud. Suddenly, the sounds of his footsteps stopped. I heard the bloodcurdling screech again, followed by a volley of gunfire, presumably from the officer. Suddenly the gunfire stopped. I heard a sickening crunch as the officer let out a scream, which harmonized with that same, piercing screech that had lured him in. I needed to run. The road was surrounded by forest on both sides. I decided to run away from whatever the fuck I just heard, into the forest on the other side of the road. I dashed into the trees, running frantically until I reached a clearing. I put my hands on my knees and panted as I leaned against a tree to catch my breath. Now, I want to make it clear that I am a coward and have never attempted to disguise this fact. For this reason, I was surprised and filled with pride when I realize I hadn’t soiled myself. I was close, though. Once I caught my breath, I turned around and dropped trow to take a whiz on the tree. I would have whizzed on the snow beneath my feet, but I like to have something to aim at. The sound of urine hitting virgin bark is what I imagine God sounds like when he whispers in your ear. As I drilled my hot piss into this coniferous tree, I felt the ground begin to rumble beneath me. The leaves on my pissing tree began to rustle, despite the lack of wind. I heard a crackling sound as the branches of tree began to move. Suddenly, I heard the ghostly screech again, much louder and closer than before. I realized immediately with horror that the screech was coming from the tree. Whiz still flowing from my dick, I turned around and ran. I didn’t even think to pull up my trousers. As a result, I tripped about five yards away from where I had began running. I fell to the ground face-first with pants down, ass bare, ready to meet my maker in pool of my still-flowing urine. I looked back toward the tree. It was bending in my direction, but none of its branches could reach me. It was then that I realized the tree couldn’t move. I was overjoyed, but for a moment. I heard a crack as the tree seemed to extend out of the ground. I tried to crawl away, but it was too late. I felt a branch curl around my leg and pull me backward. I was now within range of the tree’s larger branches. I heard a whistling in the air as a branch came down and struck my exposed posterior with a fury it hadn’t experienced since it felt the wrath of my father’s belt after I drank all his liquor. I felt a rush of cold air flow across my newly-opened wounds as the branch lifted up by its own volition and came down on my tender ass again. I looked up to the sky to face my creator. If I was going to die in a

puddle of urine getting my ass whipped by a tree, I was going to die looking God in the face. When I looked up, I didn’t see god. I saw a park ranger, his face a mixture of alarm and confusion. “STAY! STAY!” he shouted in the direction of the tree. Its screams turned to the whines of an obedient dog. The branches returned to their natural position. “I’m sorry about Bessie there, she doesn’t usually get agitated,” said the ranger. “You didn’t do anything to make her mad, did you?” “Uh, no. Not that I know of,” I lied, my raw ass covered in bandages. The ranger had taken me back to his cabin to fix me up after the beating I had sustained. While having my ass beat by a large plant while I soiled myself was probably the second or third most humiliating experience I’ve ever had, I kept my wits enough about me to avoid telling the ranger about my occupation. I hadn’t ever heard of killer trees, so I assumed somebody was trying to keep it that way, and that somebody wouldn’t be too keen on letting an investigative reporter hear of this. “So, what the hell was that?” I asked. “You know, besides a fucking killer tree?” “I shouldn’t tell you, but I think you’ve maybe earned a right to know,” gesturing toward my bloody, shredded jeans lying on the floor. Since my notebook, lying in my back pocket, had been torn to shreds in a valiant but ultimately futile effort to save my rear end, I didn’t have anything to mark down the ranger’s exact quotes. The general gist was that Monsanto scientists had, in an ethically interesting experiment, managed to splice human DNA into a pine tree. This happened back in the 1970s, when scientists were awarded large government contracts to pour brightly-colored liquids in and out of test tubes and do crazy experiments just for the hell of it. The best explanation I was given was that these scientists thought a talking Christmas tree would be hilarious. In keeping with traditional sci-fi tropes, this experiment worked, despite the exhaustive body of scientific literature that clearly states this would be impossible. Despite the groundbreaking scientific achievement of combining animal and plant DNA, the experiment was ultimately deemed a failure because the trees couldn’t talk. They were able to move their limbs, make sounds, and communicate with their siblings, but they could not talk. This, combined with the trees’ generally aggressive demeanor, made them unappealing to Monsanto executives, who promptly shut the project down. The project remained dormant until the mid-1990s, when a young Monsanto researcher discovered the last remaining hybrid seeds. He wanted to restart the experiments, but needed to justify the expense to Monsanto executives. He found his solution in genetic patenting, a practice Monsanto was already known for. If the hybrid Christmas trees were let into the wild, they would cross-pollenate with other coniferous trees. Within a few generations, most harvestable Christmas trees in the region would have Monsanto-patented DNA. As a result, Christmas tree

Winter 2015

vendors would be forced to pay licensing fees to Monsanto for selling a patented product. “This is literally the dumbest thing I’ve heard all week,” I said when the ranger finished telling me his story. “Would you believe it more if I just said it was a haunted forest full of spooky ghost trees?” “Honestly, yes.” I got the hell out of Prescott County, Iowa the next morning. I still don’t know what I saw there. All I know is that I saw something that night, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. Mostly on my butt.

CARTOONS FROM THE GARGOYLE VAULT Alumni Advertisement by Paul Dobertin

The Prizefighter Writes His Memoirs (Litchty-Williams collaboration June 1928 Gargoyle)

Hottest cartoonist of the day Charles Schulz-- with no known U of M connection-- sent this for 1962 Garg revival 6

Urine LoveR.Kelly Chuck Berry “ ‘Urine my Heart Always’ trickled into our ears and warmed our hearts” -Rolling Stone by Sydney Glide

wo of our favorite urocentric artists from two different generations come together to sprinkle some love ballads on a brand new album. R.Kelly and Chuck Berry give us gold in the album we’ve all been waiting for: Urine my Heart Always. This album features hit songs such as “April Showers, I Bring her Flowers”and “You Light Up My Soul With That Yellow Glow”. Tears will flow from your eyes when you hear the slow jam “Shower You With A Gift That Money Can’t Buy.” P. Diddy joins our golden boys Kelly and Berry to produce the best power ballad this year: “P.P.S. I love you! (ft. P. Diddy)” If you’re looking for an album to express your burning desires for that special someone, urine luck. Don’t piss out on this brand new album! “Urine My Heart Always” is available on Napster. If you love Gold more than Silver, you are going to love the hit Christmas album “I Write Your Name (in the Snow).” Yes, our favorite wet and wild duo make a musical comeback that will warm more than our hearts. Berry and Kelly let their R&B flair trickle into the Holiday classics that we all know and love. Cozy up near the fireplace as you listen to hits such as “Watersports Are An Indoor Sport”, “I’ll Be Coming Down Your Chimney Every Night,” and “I Shower Carol with Carols”. Kelly and Berry have a full sack full of musical treats, that are sure to stream magically through, you as they bring a new meaning to “Do You Hear What I Hear?” “Tinkle

Winter 2015

“If you’re looking for an album to express your burning desires for that special someone, urine luck.” Tinkle, Little Me” glows brighter than any Christmas Tree light. People Magazine raves “as sharp as an icicle and just as drippy.” Nothing is more passionate than “I’ll Make Your Lap Warmer Than Santa’s.” In an interview with MTV, Kelly stated that he was inspired to do this album with Berry because of Berry’s experience with

Christmas tunes and because of a sexy Black Friday shopping trip he took in 2004. “I Just Want To Shower The World With Gold,” remarks Kelly, “That’s the git God gave me, and this is my Christmas gift to the world.” “I Write Your Name in the Snow” is available December 4th on Amazon.

JESUS CHRIST! IT’S AIR BUD!

A Behind-The Scenes Sneak Peek At The Upcoming Major Motion Picture After an acquaintance mentioned earlier this year that he had ironically signed up to be an extra in the new Air Bud movie, I first grew upset and slapped him. How dare he be such an ironic prick, I had thought. It was quite appropriate of me to slap him in his face and then spit on his shoes. For he did not share the mystical connection I felt with the Air Bud franchise, despite my only seeing Air Bud Spikes Back and none of the other ones. All he had was the free time and enough money to buy a plane ticket to Los Angeles, where the winter wonderland of a new Christmas-themed Air Bud would be shot on location in a real Hollywood studio. I was able to steal his plane ticket and his I.D. so as to fulfill my plan to go undercover and leak some details to the highest bidding press. Upon arrival, I discovered all was not well on the set of Jesus Christ! It’s Air Bud! It was gloomy and silent. The crew had their eyes closed. I asked a clipboard lady what was going on and she told me to be quiet, that this was a moment of silence due to last night’s murder of the film’s director, BJ Cummings. I laughed very loudly on account of how funny the name was. I regained composure after some time and the moment of silence continued. In short, I took advantage of this tragedy by sitting in the chair labeled the director’s chair, and started yelling at people to do things. It turned out that becoming a film director is actually quite simple, and a great way to make some cash. The film was to be rewritten and directed by myself, as per the contract I signed with the film’s producer, who was now also me. “Air Bud joins the Jamaican bobsled team to make Jamaica great again.” This was all I had to go with in my notepad after the murder of BJ Cummings, when I suspended production for a mere two days during which I thought I would do a complete overhaul of the script and throw out all previous footage of the film. I started by cutting out the religious themes, the plot, and by firing the dumbidiot child actor shits. Instead of these things, I used a good full day arguing with Tim Allen

and Vince Vaughn to get on board. Vince Vaughn agreed to shoot one half-day, for a large fee. His part is the emotional driving force of the film, so it was essential we get a good, solid ten minutes of footage from him. I felt it would be appropriate for Vince Vaughn to play himself, as a goofy yet genuine coach of the Jamaican bobsled team, who with the addition of Air Bud to the team creates a great squad of bobsledders. Tim Allen was easier to get for the film, because he refused the offer and I kidnapped him. He was my first choice for the role of Air Bud, a character achieved through the magic of motion capture technology. It wasn’t long into production before I grew bored with directing the film, so I put my assistant in charge of directing Tim Allen’s motions, and dug deep into the diary of my favorite film director, Danny DeVito. The diary was given to me by my hired goons, these large men I hired to protect me from being murdered like BJ Cummings was. And also to do my bidding, such as stealing various diaries. The diary contained a lot of interesting anecdotes from when DeVito directed the film Matilda. This, along with my binge watching of professional women’s curling, kept me occupied until the shoot finished. I decided to dedicate the film to Danny DeVito and add some scenes of CGI golden retrievers partaking in the sport of curling, as more solid gold to add to the film, which already had an undeniable future as a hit family comedy. The film has now gone $60 million over budget, with the original budget being close to $9 million. This was mostly achieved through the amount of money put into CGI work, as I found it unethical to use real live dogs in favor of motion capture. Plus, dogs make me nervous, they’re like always panting and shit. It was beautiful to fire the dog trainers and tell them off, I mean I really let them have it. In the end, I’m happy with the way the film is looking right now. It currently has a running time around 41 minutes, a little short for a feature film, but I know film goers and they don’t want another lagging, 2 hour long bore-fest. The kids will text message each other throughout the film anyway, so I’m pretty sure the parents won’t mind that I threw in some adult wisecracks about politics, and recycled some one-liners and footage from Bad Santa. Unfortunately, due to the amount of CGI involved and the cost of Vince Vaughn, the film won’t come out until Summer 2017. I fired most of the visual effects crew in order to pay Vince Vaughn his money. I don’t like sports and I don’t know how dogs can play sports, but luckily my visual effects computer boys do. They’ve assured me the motions I captured of Tim Allen doing dog/sports stuff, as per my direction, would work fine. I’ve stayed up all night with this ongoing film process, often looking at my hard-working effects and editing teams from my chair, as I listen to Goosebumps audiobooks on my phone and applying lotion to myself. The only real worry I now have for the film is that of its title. I just have no idea what it should be called, whether it should be Luke Collard’s Air Bud Christmas, or Luke Collard’s Christmas Air Bud Sports Featuring Tim Allen with Guest Vince Vaughn. I’ve decided for now that coming up with titles for the film is not my job, and I have no money to hire a committee to come up with one, so I’ll just stick to its original name. It shall be called Luke Collard’s Jesus Christ! It’s Air Bud!

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Sex Ed from Mary: “Mommy where do babies come from?” My response to my son Jesus on the MommyBlog.com

ow you are probably wondering what a one night stand is. It’s when a baby grows in your stomach after you meet an angel in the middle of the night. I can tell you all about that, because you were the product of one. It’s one of the most beautiful things you can experience. A strange person came into our house and told me he was an angel. He was not wearing a shirt, so it seemed legit. He said God sent him to put a baby in me. What happens is an angel shines a bright light on you. After about two quick minutes it ends. It wasn’t very exciting for me. Afterwards a little baby grows in your tummy. If you don’t want to get pregnant, you just put sunglasses on because it blocks out the light. The reason people wear clothes is to keep them from becoming pregnant. If the sun hits your skin for too long, a little baby starts to grow in your tummy. Why do you think I always tell you to wear clean clothes when you leave the house?

“If you don’t want to get pregnant, you just put sunglasses on because it blocks out the light.” Now you might hear this term “nail and bale” a lot. It’s when someone leaves you stranded in the desert while you are having contractions and you have to stay in a stable where there are bales of hay. “Nail and bale” was how you came about, honey. I needed a place to stay but the inn was booked. You know how traveling around the holidays can be. Anyways, your father didn’t think to use his omniscient power to maybe make a reservation at the inn nine months in advance or anything. It seems like if he can arrange for an angel to visit me, that he could make a quick call to the Holiday Inn Express. The nice thing about the “nail and bale” is that it happened out in the open, not behind closed doors at the inn, so people watched.

“You’ll hear lots of fathers say that the best threesome is two moms and one father, but I think our family is very blessed regardless.” A threesome is something you’ll hear people talk about because it’s very rare and highly desired. Threesomes also require lots of skills so that everyone in the threesome is satisfied. My sweet child, you are the product of a threesome. Your father God, your father Joseph, and myself, your mother, are involved in a threesome for you. A threesome is when you have two fathers and one mom. You’ll hear lots of fathers say that the best threesome is two moms and one father, but I think our family is very blessed regardless. You are lucky to be a part of a threesome, because it means you have the love and care of the three of us. Other kids only have two parents, and those booger eaters can barely speak let alone turn water into wine. If you can learn anything from my talk to my son, is that it’s best to be honest and open with your children. Sex maybe an awkward talk, what with explaining the special role play of the angel and animals, but its natural. Sex is the product of the love from two men, a cherub, and a beam of light. Have you tried using any of my techniques for “the talk” with your kids? Let me know in the comments!

Winter 2015

, T S I R H C S U JES E F I L Y Z A R C E N O D A H I’VE : y p a r g o i b o an aut

I’m really sick of that Easter time hashtag “is risen.” Clearly people don’t get that every time they tweet, my asshole father makes me leave home and come back to that shithole called Earth. He says when I rise, it looks good for the family business. I’m sick of being the poster child for Christianity. It’s like I died on the cross, and you still are demanding more of me. Talk about a helicopter parent. And while I am on the subject of shit that really rides my camels, why in the hell are people “Dreaming of a White Christmas?” Seriously, where I was born it was warmer than a freakin’ hot yoga class, that’s why my mom could birth me so easily, but I digress. The real story is what happens every Easter. When I rise, I must take human form and walk the earth for an entire calendar year. I try to remain incognito, because if people actually knew I existed, what would Atheists blog about publicly at Starbucks? While I wander the earth in human form, I get hungry. If I want to eat I need money. If I want money, then I have to check the want ads. Each time I come back

to earth, I land in a different city and I take a different job. I initially thought being a doctor would be easy. All I had to do was rub my hands together like Mr. Miyagi, and bam: they’d be healed. Alas, hospitals require degrees for that, so my hours of watching ER were basically useless. Being a bartender was great because I saved the restaurant tons of money. I would turn the water into wine, juice into gin, and cider into beer. As a bartender, I was able to master my skill of turning beverages into real cocktails. It was an actual personal achievement. When I moved to LA, work seemed scarce and most of the jobs where out of my wheelhouse, until I saw a flyer posted in the men’s restroom at the Jack in the Box. It read “Got Wood? Contact us at Vic69@hardwood.com” Finally, something I have experience in: carpentry. I emailed back and told them I am great with woodworking, and that my stepfather taught me everything I knew about working wood. The boss, Vic McHard, liked my passion and gave me an address of a location to meet him at. He told me that he liked the way I looked in a robe and told me to shave my beard, leaving behind a lonely full mustache. I told him it was against my beliefs to shave. He also told me that there would be lots of porking, so I figured it wouldn’t be align with my lifestyle as a Jew. Right now, I am happily the magician at the Sheridan Lounge in Toledo, Ohio. It’s some low stakes shit, where I pull doves out of my ass and people clap. I can even turn water into wine. I think I’ve found my calling. When people ask me what my secret is, I say I guess I’m just blessed that way. -- Jesus H. Christ

The Last of the Late Night DJs A transcript of Bobby “The Night Wolf” Jackson’s final radio appearance, as broadcast on the Night of Friday, April 15th, 1992.

here was a time in this country when every city, town, and county cherished their local DJ. Ever seen American Graffiti? Yeah, it was exactly like that. I wasn’t there. I didn’t live through it, but I’m sure I can feel it, like a whisper in the wind, every time I hear the crackle of my own voice coming through the mic. AM radio gives you a feeling like no other, just a lone voice coming at you over the air waves at a frequency from 531 to 1611 kHz between assorted smooth jazz classics. Through your ears it brings tears to your eyes, after causing a sniffle in your nose, and sneaking an unpleasant gassy feeling into the empty spaces in your stomach. Sometimes it feels as though this is the end of an era. What’s gonna happen to

Bobby Jackson went on to have what some might call a normal life. Those who knew him years after he last ruled the airwaves might never have guessed what he once meant to the people of Ann Arbor. After his radio career ended he took a job at a bank, married his college girlfriend Elizabeth, and raised two beautiful children, Katie and Charlie. He passed away three days ago, having not been on a mic in 23 years. What he felt wasn’t resentment about having given up what he loved for

Winter 2015

this business after I graduate and am no longer the voice of Friday night in Ann Arbor from 8 to 12 (with a break from 9:45-9:50)? Will the next generation of DJs carry the torch, as I did? Do they understand the legacy of nighttime AM broadcasting? Do they know how much it means to the listeners that we set the feeling for their night, and our obligation to be the voice on the other side of that magic box that gives them what they need? We’re the voice they’ll remember when they think back later in life to that first romantic dance with their spouse. We’re the voice that played their requests when they just had to hear that sweet sad song one more time after a rough physics midterm. We’re the voice that told them there was a 30 percent chance of rain on Saturday afternoon. Will my successors

appreciate all this? I hope so.

something else he loved, but as the years passed it hurt him more and more to think about his years as the Night Wolf. Gradually his smile became a little less quick and his voice lost its distinctively resonant quality even as it kept its pleasant tone. It had faded slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, but as he grew older those who had listened to him in their college days would not have recognized his as the voice of their Friday nights if he had read a weather report to their faces or told them about the last Kenny G track.

It hurts us all to see a star so bright fade. Sometimes it causes us to wonder whether it might not have been better for it to have gone out in a single brilliant flash. But Bobby had for a moment what most of us never have. Some say if you tune your radio just right on any given Friday night, you can still hear the Night Wolf, howling away between assorted smooth jazz classics. But honestly, don’t do that. AM radio is just a bad choice at this point, there are just much better options.

Either way, I’d like to give one more heartfelt goodbye to all my listeners out there, however many of you there are. I just want you all to know I enjoyed this ride just as much as you did. This is me, The Night Wolf, signing off from Umich Student Radio one last time. I can’t say what I always say at about this time, “I’ve got to go back to my home planet now, earthlings; but I’ll be back with you next Friday” but what I can say is, “I’ve got to go now; but I’ll always remember the weird-ass smell of this mic. Seriously, who did this? And HOW?”

— Bobby Jackson

Winter 2015

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CL ann arbor > personals > missed connections

You were, I was . . . (w4m)

You were some random dude of possibly Asian decent (I don’t know, it was late and honestly I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention) who came to the Internet Cat Video Festival late. You had shortish darkish hair, and were holding what may or may not have possibly been either a skateboard or a scooter or something. I was some strange girl wearing a Jurassic Park T-shirt who offered you my cat ears as a crappy consolation prize. I made those ears myself earlier that day, sending an entire laborious, painstaking, and inspired quarter of an hour crafting those artisinal ears with every bit of love, passion, and fancy feast I had. But for you, a complete stranger, I bravely sacrificed them to the unknown for your happiness… Only to later find one single ear of the set abandoned on the ground. It wasn’t near a trashcan or anything, so I am certain that its loss was not intentional, unless you are some form of mad-man who takes the gifts others give to you only to tear them apart and leave their dismembered corpses strewn around campus. Did the misfortune of missing the Cat Video Festival strike you do deeply as to drive you to madness? Did you pull a Vincent van Gogh from despair? Either way, alone and dejected, this lone ear called out to me, its creator, for salvation, and I responded. I have rescued the ear, and now it sits upon my desk, mourning the loss of its mate. The tragedy of this event had affected me deeply. Oh, Cinderella! Where is-eth the headband on which this cat ear fits? What events transpired that you came to the yarn ball late? Where hath you gone since then? Shall I keep searching? Or is this ear destined to remain alone forever… Seriously, dude, if you’re reading this, would you like to have the missing cat ear back? I’d be happy to give it to you. Hell, even if you don’t have the other one, I know you’re probably a university student who likes cat videos. What more do I need to know? We could meet in the Ugli and watch cat videos together. I mean, I went to a freaking cat video festival... I kind of need more friends.

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“you have the right to remain silent...”

BDSM cop! A mad man has escaped from the lunatic asylum and is going

Damn-it BDSM cop! You’re a loose cannon! You’re getting a displinary hearing 16

No ball gag BDSM cop

Actually I prefer candle play. Have fun though

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You’ll Go Down in History I’ve had some hot times in my day, but this one takes the cake. I was up in the North Pole on business. After my presentation was over, I set out to take in the nightlife. I stopped by a bar near Santa’s workshop for a pint one foggy Christmas eve…and some companionship. At the bar, I saw a slutty little number drinking peppermint schnapps. “Hey Beautiful” I said. “Can I buy you a drink?” “I’m not in the mood,” she said. “Why, what’s got you down?” ”All of the other reindeer won’t let me play their reindeer games” she said. “The name’s Rudolph, by the way.” When she turned her head toward me, I was entranced by her bright red nose and her rockin’ tits. I was super hard. We talked for a while, and eventually I worked up the courage to say what was really on my mind. “Rudolph with your ass so tight, won’t you ride my 10 inch cock tonight?” I said. She was game. What followed was an evening of intense Christmas passion.

I Got Coal, All the Way Up There I once attended a Santa Claus themed cosplay party. I decided to dress up as a scantily clad Krampus to shake things up. The cosplayers did not enjoy my subversive dress and decided to punish me. I realized that I wanted them to punish me. They stripped me down and a man dressed as Santa claimed I was on his naughty list and my punishment was outside. They led me outside to a deer that they had put antlers onto, and told me that I would have to either fuck it or face the consequences. I was not so jazzed about fucking a fake reindeer, so I asked what the consequences were. They said that if I didn’t have sex with it, I would have to drink its piss. At the word “piss” my manhood immediately became turgid and I totally splooged. As they stood confused, I swiped the piss from Santa and slurped it right up. Santa shook my hand and we all had an excellent rest of the party. Sincerely, Bob Slurpinski

You Spin Me Right Round (Like a Dreidel) I’ve always considered Hanukah to be the most erotic holiday of the year, but nothing compares to my first Hanukah after graduating college. The morning before the first night my girlfriend at the time left me a note on the counter saying that when she got home from work that she had a surprise for me. I lit a menorah with dick-shaped candles to set the mood and waited in the bedroom. She walked in wearing lingerie and holding two dreidels in her hand. Instead of the usual symbols on the side, there were erotic actions, and where to do them to each other. Two bottles of Manischevitz and many spins later, I awoke naked in our living room and my girl had left me and taken every damn last chocolate coin I had to my name. I never saw her again, but every time I hear the dreidel song, my eyes moisten and my pants stiffen.

I Do this All the Time, Trust Me The Dorms were nearly empty, and everyone had gone home. It was December 23rd and Christmas was in the air…so it was cold and I was lonely. But not for long. I was walking back from the caf when I spied the sexy coed from my college class. She was very hot. We started talking and boom, we go back to her room to “hang out”. Eventually, I asked her if she wanted to have sexual intercourse with me. She said yes. Then I took my pants off. So did she. I stepped towards her and we kissed passionately. Then she pulled away and pushed the mess of papers off of her desk and onto the floor. Then she looked like she regretted doing that and picked the papers up and organized them. This kind of killed the vibe. Then she bent over and rested her elbows on the desk. She smiled at me and said “go ahead”. We totally had sex and it was way awesome. College seems like it could be pretty cool!

Winter 2015

Adolphin Hitler Mousolini

Kim Jong Eel

Polpotamus

猫泽东 Chairman Meow 20

Winter 2015

Table of Contents 13. Heaven And Hell 14. Risky Business 15. *Purr* Volume CV, Number 2 Winter 2015

S TA F F

Nico Pigg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nipple Hair Daphine Zhao . . . . . . . . . Unexpectedly Loud Fart Caleb Nusbaum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hubris Pie E.A. Chavis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vaping Guy

16. Going Undercover 17. Full Bush 18. Home Improvement 19. As White As Snow 20. It’s Better This Way

Neal Jackson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nuclear Cockroach

21. No Christmas For You

Alex Boscolo . . . . . . . . . . Kim Davis Boob Sweat

22. That Page

Emily Bromberg . . . . . . . . . . . Latest Final Day Luke Collard . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lustful Sloth Jenny Ghose . . . . . . . . . . . Socks N Sandals Meredith Gilbert . . . . . . . . . . . Crusty Dish Sydney Glide . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Goy Ellen James . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Wet Bike Seat Andrew Keating . . . . . . . . . . . . Not Racist, But. . . Sarah Kimmel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Leg Jiggler Jeremy Kruman . . . . . . . . . Blown Vibrator Fuse Max Kuang . . . . . . . . . . Honor Code Violation Ben Leigh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hamms James Mackin . . . . . . . Opinion Piece In The Daily Chris Seeman . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tentacle Porn Simone Shemshideni . . . . . . . . . Asparagus Pee Akash Ramanujam . . . . . . . . . Gross Laugh Fiona Tien . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ugly Crying 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

23. This Page 24. Sup?